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HYPERION. 


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5 


HYPERION 


A ROMANCE. 


HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 

•I 


" Look not mournfully into the Past. It comes not back again. Wisely improve 
the Present. It is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy Future, without fear, and 
with a manly heart.” 


FIFTEENTH EDITION. 


BOSTON: 

TICKNOR AND FIELDS. 


M DCCC LV. 


Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1845, by 
H. W. Longfellow, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts 


Gift 

W. L. Shoemaker 
7 S ’06 


t I 


CAMBRIDGE: 

STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY 
METCALF AND COMPANY, 
PRINTERS TO THE UNIVERSITY. 


BOOK THE FIRST. 


‘Who ne’er his bread in sorrow ate, 

Who ne’er the mournful midnight hours 
Weeping upon his bed has sate, 

He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers.” 


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BOOK THE FIRST. 


CHAPTER 1. 

THE HERO. 

In John Lyly’s ‘‘Endymion,” Sir Topas is 
made to say : “ Dost thou know what a poet is } 
Why, fool, a poet is as much as one should say, — 
a poet I ’’ And thou, reader, dost thou know what 
a hero is ^ Why, a hero is as much as one should 
say,—a hero ! Some romance-writers, however, 
say much more than this. Nay, the old Lom¬ 
bard, Matteo Maria Bojardo, set all the church- 
bells in Scandiano ringing, merely because he had 
found a name for one of his heroes. Here, also, 
shall church-bells be rung, but more solemnly. 

The setting of a great hope is like the setting 
of the sun. The brightness of our life is gone. 
Shadows of evening fall around us, and the world 
seems but a dim reflection, — itself a broader 



4 


HYPERION, 


shadow. We look forward into the coming 
lonely night. The soul withdraws into itself. 
Then stars arise, and the night is holy. 

Paul Flemming had experienced this, though 
still young. The friend of his youth was dead. ' 
The bough had broken “ under the burden of 
the unripe fruit.” And when, after a season, he 
looked up again from the blindness of his sorrow, 
all things seemed unreal. Like the man whose j 
sight had been restored by miracle, he beheld ' 
men, as trees, walking. His household gods i 
were broken. He had no home. His sympathies 
cried aloud from his desolate soul, and there 
came no answer from the busy, turbulent world ; 
around him. He did not willingly give way to 
grief. He struggled to be cheerful, — to be * 
strong. But he could no longer look into the 
familiar faces of his friends. He could no longer : 
live alone, where he had lived with her. He 
went abroad, that the sea might he between him 
and the grave. Alas ! between him and his sor¬ 
row there could be no sea, but that of time. 

He had already passed many months in lonely 
wandering, and was now pursuing his way along 
the Rhine, to the South of Germany. He had 
journeyed the same way before, in brighter days 



A ROMANCE. 


5 


and a brighter season of the year, in the May of 
life and in the month of May. He knew the 
beauteous river all by heart, — every rock and 
ruin, every echo, every legend. The ancient 
castles, grim and hoar, that had taken root as it 
were on the cliffs,—they were all his; for his 
thoughts dwelt in them, and the wind told him 
tales. 

He had passed a sleepless night at Rolandseck, 
and had risen before daybreak. He opened the 
window of the balcony to hear the rushing of the 
Rhine. It was a damp December morning; and 
clouds were passing over the sky,—thin, vapory 
clouds, whose snow-white skirts were “ often spot¬ 
ted with golden tears, which men call stars. ” The 
day dawned slowly ; and, in the mingling of day¬ 
light and starlight, the island and cloister of Non- 
nenwerth made together but one broad, dark shad¬ 
ow on the silver breast of the river. Beyond, 
rose the summits of the Siebengebirg. Solenm 
and dark, like a monk, stood the Drachenfels, in 
his hood of mist; and rearward extended the cur¬ 
tain of mountains, back to the Wolkenburg,—the 
Castle of the Clouds. 

But Flemming thought not of the scene before 
him. Sorrow unspeakable was upon his spirit in 


6 


HYPERION, 


that lonely hour; and, hiding his face in his hands, 
he exclaimed aloud : — 

Spirit of the past! look not so mournfully at 
me with thy great tearful eyes ! Touch me not 
with thy cold hand ! Breathe not upon me with 
the icy breath of the grave ! Chant no more 
that dirge of sorrow, through the long and silent 
watches of the night ! ” 

Mournful voices from afar seemed to answer, 
“ Treuenfels ! ” and he remembered how others 
had suffered, and his heart grew still. 

Slowly the landscape brightened. Down the 
rushing stream came a boat, with its white wings 
spread, and darted like a swallow through the nar¬ 
row pass of God’s-Help. The boatmen were 
singing, — but not the song of Roland the Brave, 
which was heard of old by the weeping Hilde- 
gund, as she sat within the walls of that cloister 
which now looked forth in the pale morning from 
amid the leafless linden-trees. The dim traditions 
of those gray old times rose in the traveller’s 
memory ; for the ruined tower of Rolandseck was 
still looking down upon the Kloster Nonnenwerth, 
as if the sound of the funeral bell had changed the 
faithful paladin to stone, and he were watching still 
to see the form of his beloved one come forth, not 



A ROMANCE. 


7 


from her cloister, but from her grave. Thus the 
brazen clasps of the book of legends were open¬ 
ed, and, on the page illuminated by the misty rays 
of the rising sun, he read again the tales of Liba, 
and the mournful bride of Argenfels, and Sieg¬ 
fried, the mighty slayer of the dragon. Meanwhile 
the mists had risen from the Rhine, and the whole 
air was filled with golden vapor, through which he 
beheld the sun, hanging in heaven like a drop of 
blood. Even thus shone the sun within him, amid 
the wintry vapors uprising from the valley of the 
shadow of death, through which flowed the stream 
of his life, — sighing, sighing ! 


8 


HYPERION, 


CHAPTER 11. 

THE CHRIST OF ANDERNACH. 

Paul Flemming resumed his solitary journey. 
The morning was still misty, but not cold. Across 
the Rhine the sun came wading through the red¬ 
dish vapors ; and soft and silver-white outspread 
the broad river, without a ripple upon its surface, 
or visible motion of the ever-moving current. A 
little vessel, with one loose sail, was riding at an¬ 
chor, keel to keel with another, that lay beneath 
it, its own apparition, — and all was silent, and 
calm, and beautiful. 

The road was for the most part solitary; for 
tliere are few travellers upon the Rhine in,win¬ 
ter. Peasant women were at work in the vine¬ 
yards ; climbing up the slippery hill-sides, like 
beasts of burden, with large baskets upon their 
backs. And once during the morning, a band of 
apprentices, with knapsacks, passed by, singing, 



A ROMANCE. 


9 


— The Rhine ! the Rhine ! a blessing on the 
Rhine ! ’’ 

O, the pride of the German heart in this no¬ 
ble river ! And right it is ; for, of all the rivers of 
this beautiful earth, there is none so beautiful as 
this. There is hardly a league of its whole course, 
from its cradle in the snowy Alps to its grave in 
the sands of Holland, which boasts not its peculiar 
charms. By heavens ! If I were a German, I 
would be proud of it too ; and of the clustering 
grapes that hang about its temples, as it reels on¬ 
ward through vineyards in a triumphal march, 
like Bacchus crowned and drunken. 

But I will not attempt to describe the Rhine; it 
would make this chapter much too long. And to 
do it well, one should write like a god ; and his 
language flow onward royally with breaks and 
dashes, like the waters of that royal river, and an¬ 
tique, quaint, and Gothic times be reflected in it. 
Alas ! this evening mine flows not at all. Flow, 
thenf into this smoke-colored goblet, thou blood of 
the Rhine ! out of thy prison-house, — out of 
thy long-necked, tapering flask, in shape not un¬ 
like a church-spire among thy native hills ; and 
from the crystal belfry loud ring the merry tink¬ 
ling bells, while I drink a health to my hero, in 




10 


HYPERION, 


whose heart k sadness, and in whose ears the bells 
of Andernach are ringing noon. 

He is threading his way alone through a narrow 
alley, and now up a flight of stone steps, and 
along the city wall, towards that old round tower 
built by the Archbishop Frederick of Cologne in 
the twelfth century. It has a romantic interest in 
his eyes ; for he has still in his mind and heart 
that beautiful sketch of Carove, in which is de¬ 
scribed a day on the tower of Andernach. He 
finds the old keeper and his wife still there ; and 
the old keeper closes the door behind him slowly, 
as of yore, lest he should jam too hard the poor 
souls in purgatory, whose fate it is to suffer in the 
cracks of doors and hinges. But, alas ! alas ! the 
daughter, the maiden with long, dark eyelashes ! 
she is asleep in her little grave, under the lin¬ 
den-trees of Feldkirche, with rosemary in her fold¬ 
ed hands ! 

Flemming returned to the hotel disappointed. 
As he passed along the narrow streets, he was 
dreaming of many things ; but mostly of the keep¬ 
er’s daughter, asleep in the churchyard of Feld¬ 
kirche. Suddenly, on turning the corner of an 
ancient, gloomy church, his attention was arrest¬ 
ed by a little chapel in an angle of the wall. It 


A ROMANCE. 


11 


was only a small thatched roof, like a bird’s nest; 
under wliich stood a rude wooden image of the 
Saviour on the cross. A real crown of thorns was 
upon his head, which was bowed downward, as if 
in the death agony ; and drops of blood were 
falling down his cheeks, and from his hands and 
fget and side. The face was haggard and ghastly 
beyond expression, and wore a look of unutter¬ 
able bodily anguish. The rude sculptor had given 
it this, but his art could go no farther. The 
sublimity of death in a dying Saviour, the expiring 
God-likeness of Jesus of Nazareth, was not there. 
The artist had caught no heavenly inspiration from 
his theme. All was coarse, harsh, and revolting 
to a sensitive mind ; and Flemming turned away 
with a shudder, as he saw this fearful image gazing 
at him, with its fixed and half-shut eyes. 

He soon reached the hotel, but that face ot 
agony still haunted him. He could not refrain 
from speaking of it to a very old woman, who 
sat knitting by the window of the dining-room, in 
a high-backed, old-fashioned arm-chair. I believe 
she was the innkeeper’s grandmother. At all 
events, she was old enough to be so. She took off 
her owl-eyed spectacles, and, as she wiped the 
glasses with her handkerchief, said : — 


12 


HYPERION, 


“ Thou dear Heaven! Is it possible ? Did you 
never hear of the Christ of Andernach ? ” 
Flemming answered in the negative. 

“ Thou dear Heaven ! ” continued the old wo¬ 
man. “ It is a very wonderful story ; and a true 
one, as every good Christian in Andernach will 
tell you. And it all happened before the death 
of my blessed man, four years ago ; let me see, — 
yes, four years ago, come Christmas.’’ 

Here the old woman stopped speaking, but 
went on with her knitting. Other thoughts seem¬ 
ed to occupy her mind. She was thinking, no 
doubt, of her blessed man, as German widows 
call their dead husbands. But Flemming having 
expressed an ardent wish to hear the wonderful 
story, she told it, in nearly the following words. 

‘‘ There was once a poor old woman in Ander¬ 
nach whose name was Frau Martha, and she lived 
all alone in a house by herself, and loved all the 
Saints and the Blessed Virgin, and was as good as 
an angel, and sold tarts down by the Rheinkrahn. 
But her house was very old, and the roof-tiles 
were broken, and she was too poor to get new ones, 
and the rain kept coming in, and no Christian soul 
in Andernach would help her. But the Frau 
Martha was a good woman, and never did any body 




A ROMANCE. 


13 


any harm, but went to mass every morning, and 
sold tarts down by the Rheinkrahn. Now one 
dark, windy night, when all the good Christians in 
Andernach were asleep in the feathers, Frau 
Martha, who lay under the roof, heard a great 
noise over her head, and in her chamber, drip ! 
drip ! drip ! as if the rain were dropping down 
through the broken tiles. Dear soul! and, sure 
enough, it was. And then there was a pounding 
and hammering overhead, as if somebody were at 
work on the roof; and she thought it was Pelz- 
Nickel tearing the tiles off, because she had not 
been td confession often enough. So she began to 
pray; and the faster she said her Pater-noster 
and her Ave-Maria, the faster Pelz-Nickel pound¬ 
ed and pulled ; and drip ! drip ! drip ! it went all 
round her in the dark chamber, till the poor 
woman was frightened out of her wits, and ran to 
the window to call {or help. Then in a moment 
all was still, — death-still. But she saw a light 
streaming through the mist and rain, and a great 
shadow on the house opposite. And then some¬ 
body came down from the top of her house by a 
ladder, and had a lantern in his hand ; and he took 
the ladder on his shoulder and passed down the 
street. But she could not see clearly, because 



14 


HYPERION, 


the window was streaked with rain. And in the 
morning the old broken tiles were found scattered 
about the street, and there were new ones on the 
roof, and the old house has never leaked to this 
blessed day. 

“ As soon as mass was over, Frau Martha told 
the priest what had happened, and he said it was 
not Pelz-Nickel, but, without doubt, St. Castor or 
St. Florian. Then she went to the market and 
told Frau Bridget all about it; and Frau Bridget 
said, that, two nights before, Hans Claus, the coop¬ 
er, had heard a great pounding in his shop, and in 
the morning found new hoops on all his hogsheads; 
and that a man with a lantern and a ladder had 
been seen riding out of town at midnight on a don¬ 
key ; and that the same night the old windmill, at 
Kloster St. Thomas, had been mended, and the 
old gate of the churchyard at Feldkirche made as 
good as new, though nobody knew how the man 
got across the river. Then Frau Martha went 
down to the Rheinkrahn and told all these stories 
over again ; and the old ferryman of-Fahr said he 
could tell something about it; for, the very night 
that the churchyard-gate was mended, he was 
lying awake in his bed, because he could not 
sleep, and he heard a loud knocking at the door. 


A ROMANCE. 


15 


and somebody calling to him to get up and set 
him over the river. And when he got up, he saw 
a man down by the river with a lantern and a lad¬ 
der ; but, as he was going down to him, the man 
blew out the light, and it was so dark he could not 
see who he was ; and his boat was old and leaky, 
and he was afraid to set him over in the dark ; but 
tlie man said he must be in Andernach that night; 
and so he set him over. And after they had 
crossed the river, he watched the man, till he 
came to an image of the Holy Virgin, and saw 
him put the ladder against the wall, and go up and 
light his lamp, and then walk along the street. 
And in the morning he found his old boat all 
caulked, and tight, and painted red, and he could 
not for his blessed life tell who did it, unless it were 
the man with the lantern. Dear soul ! how" 
strange it was ! 

And so it went on for some time ; and when¬ 
ever the man with the lantern had been seen walk¬ 
ing through the street at night, so sure as the 
morning came, some work had been done for the 
sake of some good soul ; and every body knew he 
did it; and yet no body could find out who he was, 
nor where he lived ; — for, whenever any body 
came near him, he blew out his light, turned down 


V 


16 


HYPERION, 


another street, and suddenly disappeared, no body 
could tell how. And some said it was Riibezahl; 
and some, Pelz-Nickel ; and some, St. Anthony- 
on-the-Heath. 

“ Now one stormy night, a poor, sinful creature 
was wandering about the streets, with her babe 
in her arms, and she was hungry, and cold, and 
no soul in Andernach would take her in. And 
when she came to the church, where the great 
crucifix stands, she saw no light in the little chapel 
at the corner ; but she sat down on a stone at the 
foot of the cross and began to pray, and prayed, 
till she fell asleep, with her poor little babe on 
her bosom. But she did not sleep long ; for a 
bright light shone full in her face ; and when she 
opened her eyes, she saw a pale man, with a lan¬ 
tern, standing right before her. He was almost 
naked ; and there was blood upon his hands and 
body, and great tears in his beautiful eyes, and 
his face was like the face of the Saviour on the 
cross. Not a single word did he say to the poor 
woman ; but looked at her compassionately, and 
gave her a loaf of bread, and took the little babe 
in his arms, and kissed it. Then the mother 
looked up to the great crucifix, but there was no 
image there ; and she shrieked and fell down as 


A ROMANCE. 


17 


if she were dead. And there she was found with 
her child ; and a few days after, they both died, 
and were buried together in one grave. And no 
body would have believed her story, if a woman, 
who lived at the corner, had not gone to the win¬ 
dow, when she heard the scream, and seen the 
figure hang the lantern up in its place, and then 
set the ladder against the wall, and go up and nail 
itself to the cross. Since that night it has nev¬ 
er moved again. Ach ! Herr Je ! ” 

Such was the legend of the Christ of Ander- 
nach, as the old woman in spectacles told it to 
Flemming. It made a painful impression on his 
sick and morbid soul; and he felt, now for the 
first time, how great is the power of popular super¬ 
stition. 

The postchaise being already at the door, Flem¬ 
ming was soon on the road to Coblentz, a town 
which stands upon the Rhine, at the mouth of the 
Mosel, opposite Ehrenbreitstein. It is by no 
means a long drive from Andernach to Coblentz ; 
and the only incident which occurred to enliven 
the way was the appearance of a fat, red-faced 
man on horseback, trotting slowly towards Ander¬ 
nach. As they met, the mad little postilion gave 
him a friendly cut' with his whip, and broke out 
2 


18 


HYPERION. 


into an exclamation, which showed he was from 
Munster ; — 

‘‘ Jesmariosp ! my friend ! How is the Man in 
the Custom-house ? ’’ 

Now to any candid mind this would seem a fair 
question enough ; but not so thought the red-faced 
man on horseback ; for he waxed exceedingly an¬ 
gry, and replied, as the chaise whirled by : — 

“ The devil take you, and your Westphalian 
ham, and pumpernickel ! ” 

Flemming called to his servant, and the servant 
to the postilion, for an explanation of this short 
dialogue ; and the explanation was, that on the 
belfry of the Kaufhaus in Coblentz is a huge 
head with a brazen helmet and a beard; and 
whenever the clock strikes, at each stroke of the 
hammer, this giant’s head opens its great jaws and 
smites its teeth together, as if, like the brazen head 
of Friar Bacon, it would say,—“Time was; 
Time is ; Time is past.” This figure is known 
through all the country round about as “ The 
Man in the Custom-house ” ; and when a friend in 
the country meets a friend from Coblentz, instead 
of saying, “ How are all the good people in Cob¬ 
lentz ? ”— he says, “How is the Man in the 
Custom-house } ” Thus the giant has a great part 


A ROMANCE. 


19 


to play in the town. And thus ended the first day 
of Flemming’s Rhine-journey ; and the only good 
deed he had done was to give an alms to a poor 
beggar woman, who lifted up her trembling hands 
and exclaimed : — 


‘‘ Thou blessed babe ! ” 


20 


HYPERION, 


CHAPTER HI. 

HOMUNCULUS. 

After all, a journey up the Rhine, in the mists 
and solitude of December, is not so unpleasant as 
the reader may imagine. You have the whole 
road and river to yourself. Nobody is on the 
wing ; hardly a single traveller. The rums are the 
same ; and the river, and the outlines of the hills ; 
and there are few living figures in the landscape 
to wake you from your musings, distract your 
thoughts, and cover you with dust. 

Thus likewise thought our traveller, as he con¬ 
tinued his journey on the morrow. The day is 
overcast, and the clouds threaten rain or snow. 
Why does he stop at the little village of Capellen ^ 
Because, right above him on the high cliff, the glo¬ 
rious ruin of Stolzenfels is looking at him with its 
hollow eyes, and beckoning to him with its gigantic 
finger, as if to say, — ‘‘ Come up hither, and I will 
tell thee an old tale.” Therefore he alights, and 


A ROMANCE. 


21 


goes up the narrow village lane, and up the stone 
steps, and up the steep pathway, and throws him¬ 
self into the arms of that ancient ruin, and holds 
his breath, to hear the quick footsteps of the fall¬ 
ing snow, like the footsteps of angels descending 
upon earth. And that ancient ruin speaks to him 
with its hollow voice, and says : —^ 

“ Beware of dreams ! Beware of the illusions 
of fancy ! Beware of the solemn deceivings of thy 
vast desires ! Beneath me flows the Rhine, and, 
like the stream of Time, it flows amid the ruins of 
the Past. I see myself therein, and I know that 
I am old. Thou, too, shalt be old. Be wise in 
season. Like the stream of thy life, runs the 
stream beneath us. Down from the distant Alps, 
— out into the wide world, it bursts away, like a 
youth from the house of his fathers. Broad-breast¬ 
ed and strong, and with earnest endeavours, like 
manhood, it makes itself away through these diffi¬ 
cult mountain-passes. And at length, in its old 
age, it falters, and its steps are weary and slow, 
and it sinks into the sand, and, through its grave, 
passes into the great ocean, which is its eternity. 
Thus shall it be with thee. 

‘‘ In ancient times, there dwelt within these halls 
a follower of Jesus of Jerusalem, —an Archbish- 



22 


HYPERION, 


op in the church of Christ. He gave himself up 
to dreams , to the illusions of fancy ; to the vast 
desires of the human soul. He sought after the 
impossible. He sought after the Elixir of Life, 
— the Philosopher’s Stone. The wealth, that 
should have fed the poor, was melted in his cru¬ 
cibles. Within these walls the Eagle of the clouds 
sucked the blood of the Red Lion, and received 
the spiritual love of the Green Dragon; but, alas ! 
was childless. In solitude and utter silence did 
the disciple of the Hermetic Philosophy toil from 
day to day, from night to night. From the place 
where thou standest, he gazed at evening upon 
hills, and vales, and waters spread beneath him ; 
and saw how the setting sun had changed them all 
to gold, by an alchemy more cunning than his 
own. He saw the world beneath his feet; and 
said in his heart, that he alone was wise. Alas ! 
he read more willingly in the book of Paracel¬ 
sus than in the book of Nature; and, believing 
that ‘ where reason hath experience, faith hath 
no mind,’ would fain have made unto himself a 
child, not as Nature teaches us, but as the Philos¬ 
opher taught, — a poor homunculus, in a glass 
bottle. And he died poor and childless ! ” 
Whether it were worth while to climb the Stolz- 


A ROMANCE. 


23 


enfels to hear such a homily as this, some persons 
may perhaps doubt. But Paul Flemming doubt¬ 
ed not. He laid the lesson to heart; and it would 
have saved him many an hour of sorrow, if he had 
learned that lesson better, and remembered it 
longer. 

In ancient times, there stood in the citadel of 
Athens three statues of Minerva. The first was 
of olive-wood, and, according to popular tradition, 
had fallen from heaven. The second was of 
bronze, commemorating the victory of Marathon ; 
and the third of gold and ivory, — a great miracle 
of art, in the age of Pericles. And thus in the 
citadel of Time stands Man himself. In child¬ 
hood, shaped of soft and delicate wood, just fallen 
from heaven ; in manhood, a statue of bronze, 
commemorating struggle and victory ; and, lastly, 
in the maturity of age, perfectly shaped in gold 
and ivory, — a miracle of art! 

Flemming had already lived through the olive 
age. He was passing into the age of bronze, in¬ 
to his early manhood ; and in his hands the flow¬ 
ers of Paradise were changing to the sword and 
shield. 

And this reminds me that I have not yet de¬ 
scribed my hero. I will do it now, as he stands 


24 


HYPERION, 


looking down on the glorious landscape ; — but 
in few words. Both in person and character he 
resembled Harold the Fair-Hair of Norway, who 
is described, in the old Icelandic Death-Song 
of Regner Hairy-Breeches, as “ the young chief 
so proud of his flowing locks ; he who spent his 
mornings among the young maidens ; he who 
loved to converse with the handsome widows. ” 
This was an amiable weakness ; and it sometimes 
led him into mischief. Imagination was the rul¬ 
ing power of his mind. His thoughts were twin- 
born; the thought itself, and its figurative sem¬ 
blance in the outer world. Thus, through the 
quiet, still waters of his soul each image floated 
double, “swan and shadow.” 

These traits of character, a good heart and a 
poetic imagination, made his life joyous and the 
world beautiful; till at length Death cut down the 
sweet blue flower that bloomed beside him, and 
wounded him with that sharp sickle, so that he 
bowed his head, and would fain have been bound 
up in the same sheaf with the sweet blue flower. 
Then the world seemed to him less beautiful, and 
life became earnest. It would have been well, 
if he could have forgotten the past; that he might 
not so mournfully have lived in it, but might have 



A ROMANCE. 


25 


enjoyed and improved the present. But this his 
heart refused to do ; and ever, as he floated upon 
the great sea of life, he looked down through the 
transparent waters, checkered with sunshine and 
shade, into the vast chambers of the mighty deep 
in which his happier days had sunk, and where¬ 
in they were lying still visible, like golden sands, 
and precious stones, and pearls ; and, half in de¬ 
spair, half in hope, he grasped downward after 
them again, and drew back his hand, filled only 
with seaweed, and dripping with briny tears! 
And between him and those golden sands a radi¬ 
ant image floated, like the spirit in Dante’s Para¬ 
dise, singing “ Ave Maria ! ” and while it sang, 
down-sinking, and slowly vanishing away. 

In all things he acted more from impulse than 
from fixed principle ; as is the case with most 
young men. Indeed, his principles hardly had 
time to take root ; for he pulled them all up, 
^very now and then, as children do the flowers 
they have planted, — to see if they are growing. 
Yet there was much in him which was good ; for 
underneath the flowers and greensward of poetry, 
and the good principles which would have taken 
root, had he given them time, there lay a strong 
and healthy soil of common sense, — freshened 


26 


HYPERION, 


by living springs of feeling, and enriched by 
many faded hopes, that had fallen upon it. like 
dead leaves. 


A ROMANCE. 


27 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE landlady’s DAUGHTER. 

“ Allez, Fuchs! allez, lustig 1 ” cried the 
impatient postilion to his horses, in accents, 
which, like the wild echo of the Lurley Felsen, 
came first from one side of the river, and then 
from the other, — tl^t is to say, in words alter¬ 
nately French and German. The truth is, he 
was tired of waiting ; and when Flemming had at 
length resumed his seat in the postchaise, the poor 
horses had to make up the time he had lost in 
dreams on the mountain. This is far oftener the 
case than most people imagine. One half of the 
world must sweat and groan, that the other half 
may dream. It would have been a difficult task 
for the traveller or his postilion to persuade the 
horses that these dreams were all for their good. 

The next stopping-place was the little tavern 
of the Star, an out-of-the-way corner in the town 
of Salzig. It stands on the banks of the Rhine ; 


28 


HYPERION, 


and, directly in front of it, sheer from the water’s 
edge, rise the mountains of Liebenstein and Ster- 
nenfels, each with its ruined castle. These are 
the Brothers of the old tradition, still gazing at 
each other face to face ; and beneath them in 
the valley stands a cloister, — meet emblem of 
that orphan child they both so passionately loved. 

In a small flat-bottomed boat did the land¬ 
lady’s daughter row Flemming “ over the Rhine- 
stream, rapid and roaring wide.” She was a 
beautiful girl of sixteen ; with black hair, and 
dark, lovely eyes, and a face that had a story to 
tell. How different faces a^e in this particular ! 
Some of them speak not. They are books in 
which not a line is written, save perhaps a date. 
Others are great Family Bibles, with both the Old 
and the New Testament written in them. Others 
are Mother Goose and nursery tales ; others, 
bad tragedies, or pickle-herring farces ; and oth¬ 
ers, like that of the landlady’s daughter at the 
Star, sweet love-anthologies, and songs of the 
affections. It was on that account that Flem¬ 
ming said to her, as they glided out into the swift 
stream : — 

My dear child ! do you know the story of the 
Liebenstein ” 


A ROMANCE. 


29 


The story of the Liebenstein,” she answered, 
“ I knew by heart, when I was a little child.” 

And here her large, dark, passionate eyes 
looked into Flemming’s, and he doubted not 
that she had learned the story far too soon and 
far too well. That story he longed to hear, as 
if it were unknown to him ; for he knew that the 
girl, who had got it by heart when a child, would 
tell it as it should be told. So he begged her to 
repeat the story, which she was but too glad to 
do ; for she loved and believed it, as if it had all 
been written in the Bible. But before she began, 
she rested a moment on her oars, and taking the 
crucifix, which hung suspended from her neck, 
kissed it, and then let it sink down into her bosom, 
as if it were an anchor she was dropping into her 
heart. Meanwhile her moist, dark eyes were 
turned to heaven. Perhaps her soul was walk¬ 
ing with the souls of Cunizza, and Rahab, and 
Mary Magdalen. Or perhaps she was thinking 
of that nun, of whom St. Gregory says, in his 
Dialogues, that, having greedily eaten a lettuce 
in a garden, without making the sign of the cross, 
she found herself soon after possessed with a 
devil. 

The probability, however, is, that she was 


30 


HYPERION, 


looking at the ruined castles only, and not to heav¬ 
en, for she soon began her story, and told Flemming 
how, a great, great many years ago, an old man 
lived in the Liehenstein with his two sons ; and 
how both the young men loved the Lady Geral¬ 
dine, an orphan, under their father’s care ; and 
how the elder brother went away in despair, and 
the younger was betrothed to the Lady Geral¬ 
dine ; and how they were as happy as Aschen- 
puttel and the Prince. And then the holy Saint 
Bernard came and carried away all the young 
men to the war, just as Napoleon did afterwards ; 
and the young lord went to the Holy Land, and 
the Lady Geraldine sat in her tower and wept, 
and waited for her lover’s return, while the old 
father built the Sternenfels for them to live in 
when they were married. And when it was 
finished, the old man died ; and the elder broth¬ 
er came back and lived in the Liehenstein, and 
took care of the gentle lady. Ere long there 
came news from the Holy Land that the war 
was over; and the heart of the gentle lady 
beat with joy, till she heard that her faithless 
lover was coming back with a Greek wife, — the 
wicked man ! and then she went into a convent 
and became a holy nun. So the young lord of 


A ROMANCE. 


31 


Stemenfels came home, and lived in his castle 
in great splendor with the Greek woman, who 
was a wicked woman, and did what she ought 
not to do. But the elder brother was angry 
for the wrong done the gentle lady, and chal¬ 
lenged the lord of Stemenfels to single combat. 
And while they were fighting with their great 
swords in the valley of Bornhofen behind the 
castle, the convent bells began to ring, and the 
Lady Geraldine came forth with a train of nuns 
all dressed in white, and made the brothers 
friends again, and told them she was the bride 
of Heaven, and happier in her convent than she 
could have been in the Liebenstein or the Stern- 
enfels. And when the brothers returned, they 
found that the false Greek wife had gone away 
with another knight. So they lived togethei 
in peace, and were never married. And when 
they died-” 

“ Lisbeth ! Lisbeth ! ” cried a sharp voice 
from the shore, ‘‘ Lisbeth ! Where are you 
taking the gentleman ? ” 

This recalled the poor girl to her senses ; and 
she saw how fast they were floating down stream. 
For in telling the story she had forgotten every 
thing else, and the swift current had swept them 



32 


HYPERION, 


clown to the tall walnut-trees of Kamp. They 
landed in front of the Capuchin monastery. Lis- 
beth led the way through the little village, and 
turning to the right pointed up the romantic, lone¬ 
ly valley which leads to the Liebenstein, and 
even offered to go with him; But Flemming 
patted her cheek and shook his head. He went 
up the valley alone. 


A ROMANCE. 


83 


CHAPTER V. 

JEAN PAUL, THE ONLY-ONE. 

It was already night, when Flemming crossed 
the Roman bridge over the Nahe, and entered 
the town of Bingen. He stopped at the White 
Horse ; and, before going to bed, looked out into 
the dim starlight from his window towards the 
Rhine, and his heart leaped within him to behold 
the bold outline of the neighbouring hills crested 
with Gothic ruins ; — which in the morning proved 
to be only a high, slated roof, with fantastic chim¬ 
neys. 

The morning was bright and frosty ; and the 
river tinged with gay colors by the rising sun. 
A soft, thin vapor floated in the air. In the 
sunbeams flashed the hoar-frost, like silver stars ; 
and through a long avenue of trees, whose drip¬ 
ping branches bent and scattered pearls before 
him, Paul Flemming journeyed on in triumph. 

The man in the play, who wished for “ some 
forty pounds of lovely beef, placed in a Medi- 
3 




34 


HYPERION 


terranean sea of brevvis,” might have seen his 
ample desires almost realized at the table d’hote 
of the Rheinischen Hof, in Mayence, where 
Flemming dined that day. At the head of the 
table sat a gentleman, with a smooth, broad 
forehead, and large, intelligent eyes. He was 
from Baireuth in Franconia ; and talked about 
poetry and Jean Paul to a pale, romantic-look¬ 
ing lady on his right. There was music all din¬ 
ner-time, at the other end of the hall; a harp 
and a horn and a voice ; so that a great part of 
the fat gentleman’s conversation with the pale 
lady w’as lost to Flemming, who sat opposite to 
her, and could look right into her large, melan¬ 
choly eyes. But what he heard so much inter¬ 
ested him, — indeed, the very name of the be¬ 
loved Jean Paul would have been enough for 
this, — that he ventured to join in the conversa¬ 
tion, and asked the German if he had known the 
poet personally. 

“ Yes ; I knew him well,” replied the stran¬ 
ger. “I am a native of Baireuth, where he 
passed the best years of his life. In my mind 
the man and the author are closely united. I 
never read a page of his writings without hearing 
his voice, and seeing his form before me. There 


A ROMANCE. 


35 


he sits, with his majestic, mountainous forehead, 
his mild blue eyes, and finely cut nose and mouth ; 
his massive frame clad loosely and carelessly in 
an old green frock, from the pockets of which 
the corners of books project, and perhaps the 
end of a loaf of bread and the nose of a bottle ; 
— a straw hat, lined with green, lying near him ; 
a huge walking-stick in his hand, and at his feet 
a white poodle, with pink eyes, and a string round 
his neck. You would sooner have taken him 
for a master-carpenter than for a poet. Is he a 
favorite author of yours ^ ’’ Flemming answered 
in the affirmative. 

‘‘ But a foreigner must find it exceedingly 
difficult to understand him,” said the gentleman. 
“ It is by no means an easy task for us Germans.” 

I have always observed,” replied Flemming, 
“that the true understanding and appreciation of 
a poet depend more upon individual than upon 
national character. If there be a sympathy be¬ 
tween the minds of writer and reader, the bounds 
and barriers of a foreign tongue are soon over¬ 
leaped. If you once understand an author’s 
character, the comprehension of his writings be¬ 
comes easy.” 

“ Very true,” replied the German, “and the 


36 


HYPERION, 


character of Richter is too marked to be easily 
misunderstood. Its prominent traits are tender¬ 
ness and manliness, — qualities which are sel¬ 
dom found united in so high a degree as in him. 
Over all he sees, over all he writes, are spread 
the sunbeams of a cheerful spirit, — the light 
of inexhaustible human love. Every sound of 
human joy and of human sorrow finds a deep- 
resounding echo in his bosom. In every man, 
he loves his humanity only, not his superiority. 
The avowed object of all his literary labors was 
to raise up again the down-sunken faith in God, 
Virtue, and Immortality ; and, in an egotistical, 
revolutionary age, to warm again our human 
sympathies, which have now grown cold. And 
not less boundless is his love for nature,—for 
this outward, beautiful world. He embraces it 
all in his arms.” 

“ Yes,” answered Flemming, almost taking 
the words out of the stranger’s mouth, “ for in 
his mind all things become idealized. He seems 
to describe himself when he describes the hero 
of his Titan, as a child, rocking in a high wind 
upon the branches of a full-blossomed apple-tree, 
and, as its summit, blown abroad by the wind, 
now sunk him in deep green, and now tossed 


A ROMANCE. 


37 


him aloft in deep blue and glancing sunshine, — 
in his imagination stood that tree gigantic ; — it 
grew alone in the universe, as if it were the tree 
of eternal life ; its roots struck down into the 
abyss ; the white and red clouds hung as blossoms 
upon it ; the moon as fruit ; the little stars spar¬ 
kled like dew, and Albano reposed in its meas¬ 
ureless summit ; and a storm swayed the summit 
out of Day into Night, and out of Night into Day.” 

“Yet the spirit of love,” interrupted the Fran¬ 
conian, “ was not weakness, but strength. It was 
united in him with great manliness. The sword 
of his spirit had been forged and beaten by 
poverty. Its temper had been tried by a thirty 
years’ war. It was not broken, not even blunt¬ 
ed, but rather strengthened and sharpened, by 
the blows it gave and received. And, possess¬ 
ing this noble spirit of humanity, endurance, and 
self-denial, he made literature his profession ; 
as if he had been divinely commissioned to write. 
He seems to have cared for nothing else, to 
have thought of nothing else, than living quietly 
and making books. He says that he felt it his 
duty, not to enjoy, nor to acquire, but to write ; 
and boasted that he had made as many books 
as he had lived years.” 


38 


HYPERION, 


“ And what do you Germans consider the 
prominent characteristics of his genius ? ” 

‘‘Most undoubtedly, his wild imagination and 
his playfulness. He throws over all things a 
strange and magic coloring. You are startled 
at the boldness and beauty of his figures and il¬ 
lustrations, which are scattered everywhere with 
a reckless prodigality ; — multitudinous, like the 
blossoms of early summer, — and as fragrant 
and beautiful. With a thousand extravagances 
are mingled ten thousand beauties of thought 
and expression, which kindle the reader’s imag¬ 
ination, and lead it onward in a bold flight, 
through the glow of sunrise and sunset, and the 
dewy coldness and starlight of summer nights. 
He is difficult to understand, — intricate, — 
strange, — drawing his illustrations from every 
by-corner of science, art, and nature, — a com¬ 
et, among the bright stars of German literature. 
When you read his works, it is as if you were 
climbing a high mountain, in merry company, to 
see the sun rise. At times you are enveloped 
in mist, — the morning wand sweeps by you with 
a shout,—you hear the far-off muttering thun¬ 
ders. Wide beneath you spreads the landscape, 
— field, meadow, town, and winding river. The 


A ROMANCE. 


39 


ringing of distant church-bells, or the sound of 
solemn village clock, reaches you ; — then arises 
the sweet and manifold fragrance of flowers, — 
the birds begin to sing, — the vapors roll away, 
— up comes the glorious sun,—you revel like 
the lark in the sunshine and bright blue heaven, 
and all is a delirious dream of soul and sense, — 
when suddenly a friend at your elbow laughs 
aloud, and offers you a piece of Bologna sausage. 
As in real life, so in his writings, — the serious 
and the comic, the sublime and the grotesque, 
the pathetic and the ludicrous, are mingled to¬ 
gether. At times he is sententious, energetic, 
simple ; then again, obscure and diffuse. His 
thoughts are like mummies embalmed in spices, 
and wrapped about with curious envelopments ; 
but within these the thoughts themselves are 
kings. At times glad, beautiful images, airy 
forms, move by you, graceful, harmonious ; — 
at times the glaring, wild-looking fancies, chained 
together by hyphens, brackets, and dashes, brave 
and base, high and low, all in their motley dress¬ 
es, go sweeping down the dusty page, like the 
galley-slaves that sweep the streets of Rome, 
where you may chance to see the nobleman and 
the peasant manacled together.’’ 


40 


HYPERION 


Flemming smiled at the German’s warmth, 
to which the presence of the lady, and the Lau- 
benheimer wine, seemed each to have contrib¬ 
uted something, and then said : — 

‘‘Better an outlaw than not free!—These 
are his own words. And thus he changes at 
his will. Like the God Thor, of the old North¬ 
ern mythology, he now holds forth the seven 
bright stars in the bright heaven above us, and 
now hides himself in clouds, and pounds aw^a^ 
with his great hammer.” 

“ And yet this is not afiectation in him,” re¬ 
joined the German. “ It is his nature, it is 
Jean Paul. And the figures and ornaments of 
his style, wild, fantastic, and ofttimes startling, 
like those in Gothic cathedrals, are not merely 
what they seem, but massive coignes and but¬ 
tresses, which support the fabric. Remove them, 
and the roof and walls fall in. And through 
these gargoyles, these wild faces, these images 
of beasts and men carved upon spouts and gut¬ 
ters, .flow out, like gathered rain, the bright, 
abundant thoughts, that have fallen from heaven. 
And all he does is done with a kind of serious 
playfulness. He is a sea-monster, disporting 
himself on the broad ocean ; his very sport is 



A ROMANCE. 


41 


earnest; there is something majestic and serious 
about it. In every thing there is strength, a 
rough good-nature, all sunshine overhead, and 
underneath the heavy moaning of the sea. Well 
may he be called ‘Jean Paul, the Only-One.’ ” 
With such discourse the hour of dinner pass¬ 
ed ; and after dinner Flemming went to the ca¬ 
thedral. They were singing vespers. A beadle, 
dressed in blue, with a cocked hat, and a crim¬ 
son sash and collar, was strutting, like a turkey, 
along the aisles. This important gentleman 
conducted Flemming through the church, and 
showed him the choir, with its heavy-sculp¬ 
tured stalls of oak, and the beautiful figures in 
brown stone over the bishops’ tombs. He 
then led him, by a side-door, intft the old and 
ruined cloisters of St. Willigis. Through the 
low Gothic arches the sunshine streamed upon 
the pavement of tombstones, whose images and 
inscriptions are mostly effaced by the footsteps 
of many generations. There stands the tomb of 
Frauenlob, the Minnesinger. His face is sculp¬ 
tured on an entablature in the wall; a fine, strong¬ 
ly-marked, and serious countenance. Below it 
is a bas-relief, representing the poet’s funeral. 
He is carried to his grave by ladies, whose praise 
he sang, and thereby won the name of Frauenlob. 


42 


HYPERION 


‘‘ This, then,’’ said Flemming, “ is the grave, 
not of Praise-God Bare-bones, but of Praise-tbe- 
Ladies Meissen, who wrote songs ‘ somewhat ol 
lust, and somewhat of love.’ But where sleeps 
the dust of his rival and foe, sweet Master Bar¬ 
tholomew Rainbow ? ” 

He meant this for an aside ; but the turkey- 
cock picked it up and answered : — 

“ I do not know. He did not belong to this 
parish.” 

I will not prolong this journey, for I am weary 
and way-worn, and would fain be at Heidelberg 
with my readers and my hero. It was already 
night when he reached the Manheim gate, and 
drove down the long Hauptstrasse so slowly, 
that it seemed \o him endless. The shops were 
lighted on each side of the street, and he saw 
faces at the windows here and there, and figures 
passing in the lamp-light, visible for a moment 
and then swallowed up in the darkness. The 
thoughts that filled his mind were strange ; as are 
always the thoughts of a traveller who enters for 
the first time a strange city. This little world 
had been going on for centuries before he came ; 
and would go on for centuries after he was gone. 
Of all the thousands who inhabited it he knew 


A ROMANCE. 


43 


nothing; and what knew they, or thought, of the 
stranger, who, in that close postchaise, weary 
with travel, and chilled by the evening wind, was 
slowly rumbling over the paved street ? Truly, 
this world can go on without us, if we would but 
think so. If it had been a hearse instead of a 
postchaise, it would have been all the same to 
the people of Heidelberg, — though by no means 
the same to Paul Flemming. 

But at the farther end of the city, near the 
Castle and the Carls-Thor, one warm heart was 
w^aiting to receive him; and this was the German 
heart of his friend, the Baron of Hohenfels, with 
whom he was to pass the winter in Heidelberg. 
No sooner had the carriage stopped at the iron- 
grated gate, and the postilion blown his horn, to 
announce the arrival of a traveller, than the Bar¬ 
on was seen among the servants at the door; 
and, a few moments afterwards, the two long- 
absent friends were in each other’s arms, and 
Flemming received a kiss upon each cheek, and 
another on the mouth, as the pledge and seal 
of the German’s friendship. They held each 
other long by the hand, and looked into each 
other’s face, and saw themselves in each other’s 
eyes, both literally and figuratively; literally, inas- 


44 


HYPERION, 


much as the images were there ; and figuratively, 
inasmuch as each was imagining what the other 
thought of him, after the lapse of some years. 
In friendly hopes and questionings and answers, 
the evening glided away at the supper-table, 
where many more things were discussed than 
the roasted hare and the Johannisberger; and 
they sat late into the night, conversing of the 
thoughts and feelings and delights which fill the 
hearts of young men who have already enjoyed 
and suffered, and hoped and been disappointed. 


A ROMANCE. 


45 


CHAPTER VI. 

HEIDELBERG AND THE BARON. 

High and hoar on the forehead of the Jetten- 
biihl stands the Castle of Heidelberg. Behind 
it rise the oak-crested hills of the Geissberg and 
the Kaiserstuhl; and in front, from the wide 
terrace of masonry, you can almost throw a stone 
upon the roofs of the town, so close do they lie 
beneath. Above this terrace rises the broad 
front of the chapel of Saint Udalrich. On the 
left stands the slender octagon tower of the 
horologe ; and on the right, a huge round tower, 
battered and shattered by the mace of war, 
shores up with its broad shoulders the beautiful 
palace and garden-terrace of Elizabeth, wife of 
the Count Palatine Frederick. In the rear are 
older palaces and towers, forming a vast, irregular 
quadrangle ; — Rodolph’s ancient castle, with its 
Gothic gloriette and fantastic gables ; the Giant’s 


46 


HYPERION. 


Tower, guarding the drawbridge over the moat; 
the Rent Tower, with the linden-trees growing 
on its summit; and the magnificent Rittersaal 
of Otho-Henry, Count Palatine of the Rhine 
and Grand Seneschal of the Holy Roman Empire. 
From the gardens behind the castle, you pass 
under the archway of the Giant’s Tower into 
the great court-yard. The diverse architecture 
of different ages strikes the eye ; and curious 
sculptures. In niches on the wall of Saint Udal- 
rich’s chapel stand rows of knights in armor, 
broken and dismembered ; and on the front of 
Otho’s Rittersaal, the heroes of Jewish history 
and classic fable. You enter the open and deso¬ 
late chambers of the ruin ; and on every side are 
medallions and family arms ; the Globe of the 
Empire and the Golden Fleece, or the Eagle 
of the Caesars, resting on the escutcheons of 
Bavaria and the Palatinate. Over the window^s 
and door-ways and chimney-pieces are sculp¬ 
tures and mouldings of exquisite workmanship ; 
and the eye is bewildered by the profusion of 
caryatides, and arabesques, and rosettes, and 
fan-like flutings, and garlands of fruits and flow¬ 
ers and acorns, and bullocks’ heads with draper¬ 
ies of foliage, and muzzles of lions, holding rings 


A ROMANCE. 


47 


in their teeth. The cunning hand of Art was 
busy for six centuries in raising and adorning 
these walls ; the mailed hands of Time and War 
have defaced and overthrown them in less than 
two. Next to the Alhambra of Granada, the 
Castle of Heidelberg is the most magnificent ruin 
of the Middle Ages. 

In the valley below flows the rushing stream 
of the Neckar. Close from its margin, on the 
opposite side, rises the Mountain of All-Saints, 
crowned with the ruins of a convent; and up the 
valley stretches the mountain-curtain of the Oden- 
wald. So close and many are the hills which 
eastward shut the valley in, that the river seems 
a lake. But westward it opens upon the broad 
plain of the Rhine, like the mouth of a trumpet; 
and like the blast of a trumpet is at times the 
wintry wind through this narrow mountain-pass. 
The blue Alsatian hills rise beyond ; and, on a 
platform or strip of level land, between the Neck¬ 
ar and the mountains, right under the castle, 
stands the town of Heidelberg; as the old song 
says, a pleasant town, when it has done rain¬ 
ing.” ' 

Something of this did Paul Flemming behold, 
when he rose the next morning and looked from 


48 


HYPERION, 


his window. It was a warm, vapory morning, 
and a struggle was going on between the mist 
and the rising sun. The sun had taken the hill¬ 
tops, but the mist still kept possession of the 
valley and the town. The steeple of the great 
church rose through a dense mass of snow-white 
clouds ; and eastward, on the hills, the dim va¬ 
pors were rolling across the windows of the ruined 
castle, like the fiery smoke of a fierce conflagra¬ 
tion. It seemed to him an image of the rising 
of the sun of Truth on a benighted world ; its 
light streamed through the ruins of centuries ; 
and, down in the valley of Time, the cross on 
the Christian church caught its rays, though the 
priests were singing in mist and darkness below. 

In the warm breakfast-room he found the 
Baron waiting for him. He was lying upon a 
sofa, in morning gown and purple-velvet slippers, 
both with flowers upon them. He had a guitar 
in his hand, and a pipe in his mouth, at the same 
time smoking, playing, and humming his favorite 
song from Goethe : — 

“ The water rushed, the water swelled, 

A fisher sat thereby.” 

Flemming could hardly refrain from laughing, 
at the sight of his friend; and told him it reminded 





A ROMANCE. 


49 


him of a street-musician he once saw in Aix-la- 
Chapelle, who was playing upon six instruments 
at once ; having a helmet with bells on his head, 
a Pan’s-reed in his cravat, a fiddle in his hand, 
a triangle on his knee, cymbals on his heels, and 
on his back a bass-drum, which he played with 
his elbows. To tell the truth, the Baron of 
Hohenfels was rather a miscellaneous youth, 
rather a universal genius. He pursued all things 
with eagerness, but for a short time only ; music, 
poetry, painting, pleasure, even the study of the 
Pandects. His feelings were keenly alive to 
the enjoyment of life. His great defect was, 
that he was too much in love with human nature. 
But by the power of imagination, in him, the 
bearded goat was changed to a bright Capricor- 
nus ;—no longer an animal on earth, but a con¬ 
stellation in heaven. An easy and indolent dis¬ 
position made him gentle and childlike m his 
manners ; and, in short, the beauty of his charac¬ 
ter, like that of the precious opal, was owing to 
a defect in its organization. His person was tall 
and slightly built; his hair light ; and his eyes 
blue, and as beautiful as those of a girl. In the 
tones of his voice there was something indescri¬ 
bably gentle and winning ; and he spoke the Ger- 
4 



50 


HYPERION. 


man language with the soft, mu-sical accent of 
his native province of Curland. In his manners, 
if he had not “ Antinous’ easy sway,” he had at 
least an easy sway of his own. Such, in tew 
words, was the bosom friend of Flemming. 

And what do you think of Heidelberg and 
the old castle } ” said he, as they seated them¬ 
selves at the breakfast-table. 

“ Last night the town seemed very long to 
me,” replied Flemming ; “ and as to the castle, 

I have as yet had but a glimpse of it through the 
mist. They tell me there is nothing finer in its 
way, than this magnificent ruin ; and I have ^ 
no doubt I shall find it so. Only I wish the 
stone were gray, and not red. But, red or gray, 

I foresee that I shall waste many a long hour in 
its desolate halls. Pray, does any body live there 
now-a-days ^ ” 

“ No body,” answered the Baron, “ but the 
man who shows the Heidelberg Tun, and a 
Frenchman, who has been there sketching ever 
since the year eighteen hundred and ten. He 
has, moreover, written a super-magnificent de¬ 
scription of the ruin, in which he says, that dur¬ 
ing the day only birds of prey disturb it with 
their piercing cries, and at night, screech-owls. 


A ROMANCE 


51 


and other fallow deer. You must buy his book 
and his sketches.” 

“Yes, the quotation and the tone of your 
voice will certainly persuade me so to do.” 

“ Take his or none, my friend, for you will 
find no others. And seriously, his sketches are 
very good. There is one on the wall there, 
which is beautiful, save and except that straddle- 
bug figure among the bushes in the corner.” 

“ But is there no ghost, no haunted chamber 
in the old castle ? ” asked Flemming, after cast¬ 
ing a hasty glance at the picture. 

“ O, certainly,” replied the Baron ; “ there 
are two. There is the ghost of the Virgin Mary 
in Ruprecht’s Tower, and the Devil in the Dun¬ 
geon.” 

“ Ha ! that is grand ! ” exclaimed Flemming, 
with evident delight. “ Tell me the whole story, 
quickly ! I am as curious as a child.” 

It is a tale of the times of Louis le Debon- 
naire,” said the Baron, with a smile ; “ a mouldy 
tradition of a credulous age. His brother Fred¬ 
erick lived here in the castle with him, and had a 
flirtation with Leonore von Luzelstein, a lady of 
the court, whom he afterwards despised, and was 
consequently most cordially hated by her. From 


52 HYPERION, 

political motives, he was equally hateful to certain 
petty German tyrants, who, in order to effect his 
ruin, accused him of heresy. But his brother 
Louis would not deliver him up to their fury, 
and they resolved to effect by stratagem wdiat 
they could not by intrigue. Accordingly, Leo- 
nore von Luzelstein, disguised as the Virgin Mary, 
and the father confessor of the Elector, in the 
costume of Satan, made their appearance in the 
Elector’s bed-chamber at midnight, and fright¬ 
ened him so horribly, that he consented to deliv¬ 
er up his brother into the hands of two Black 
Knights, who pretended to be ambassadors from 
the Vehm-Gericht. They proceeded together to 
Frederick’s chamber; where, luckily, old Gem- 
mingen, a brave soldier, kept guard behind the 
arras. The monk went foremost in his Satanic 
garb ; but, no sooner had he set foot in the prince’s 
bed-chamber, than the brave Gemmingen drew 
his sword, and said quaintly, ‘ Die, wretch ! ’ 
and so he died. The rest took to their heels, 
and were heard of no more. And now the souls 
of Leonore and the monk haunt the scene of 
their midnight crime. You will find the story in 
the Frenchman’s book, worked up with a kind 
of red-morocco and burnt-cork sublimity, and 


A ROMANCE. 


great melo-dramatic clanking of chains, and 
hooting of owls, and other fallow deer ! ” 

‘‘ After breakfast,” said Flemming, “ we will 
go up to the castle. I must get acquainted with 
this mirror of owls, this modern Till Eulenspie- 
gel. See what a glorious morning we have ! 
It is truly a wondrous winter ! what summer sun¬ 
shine ! what soft Venetian fogs ! How the wan¬ 
ton, treacherous air coquets with the old gray- 
beard trees ! Such weather makes the grass 
and our beards grow apace ! But we have an 
old saying in English, that winter never rots in 
the sky. So he will come down at last in his 
old-fashioned mealy coat. We shall have snow 
in spring ; and the blossoms will be all snow¬ 
flakes. And afterwards a summer, which will 
be no summer, but, as Jean Paul says, only a 
winter painted green. Is it not so 

“ Unless I am much deceived in the climate 
of Heidelberg,” replied the Baron, “we shall 
not have to wait long for snow. We have sud¬ 
den changes here ; and I should not marvel much, 
if it snowed before night.” 

“ The greater reason for making good use 
of the morning sunshine, then. Let us hasten 
to the castle, after which my heart yearns.” 


54 


HYPERION, 


CHAPTER VIL 

LIVES OF SCHOLARS. 

The forebodings of the Baron proved true 
In the afternoon the weather changed. The 
western wind began to blow, and drew a cloud- 
veil over the face of heaven, as a breath does 
over the human face in a mirror. Soon the 
snow began to fall. Athwart the distant land¬ 
scape it swept like a white mist. The storm-wind 
came from the Alsatian hills, and struck the 
dense clouds aslant through the air. And ever 
faster fell the snow, a roaring torrent from those 
mountainous clouds. The setting sun glared 
wildly from the summit of the hills, and sank 
like a burning ship at sea, wrecked in the tem¬ 
pest. Thus the evening set in; and winter 
stood at the gate wagging his white and shaggy 
beard, like an old harper chanting an old rhyme : 
— “ How cold it is ! how cold it is ! ” 

“ I like such a storm as this,” said Flem- 


A ROMANCE. 


55 


ming, who stood at the window, looking out 
into the tempest and the gathering darkness. 
“ The silent falling of snow is to me one of the 
most solemn things in nature. The fall of au¬ 
tumnal leaves does not so much affect me. But 
the driving storm is grand. It startles me ; it 
awakens me. It is wild and woful, like my own 
soul. I cannot help thinking of the sea; how 
the waves run and toss their arms about, — and 
the wind plays on those great sonorous harps, 
the shrouds and masts of ships. Winter is here 
in earnest ! How the old churl whistles and 
threshes the snow ! Sleet and rain are falling 
too. Already the trees are bearded with icicles ; 
and the two broad branches of yonder pine look 
like the white mustache of some old German 
baron.’’ 

And to-morrow it will look more wintry 
still,” said his friend. “We shall wake up and 
find that the frost-spirit has been at work all 
night building Gothic cathedrals on our windows, 
just as the Devil built the Cathedral of Cologne. 
So draw the curtains, and come, sit here by the 
warm fire.” 

“ And now,” said Flemming, having done as 
his friend desired, “ tell me something of Hei- 


56 


HYPERION, 


delberg and its University. I suppose we shall 
lead about as solitary and studious a life here as 
we did of yore in little Gottingen, wdth nothing 
to amuse us, save our own day-dreams.” 

“ Pretty much so,” replied the Baron ; “ which 
cannot fail to please you, since you are in pur¬ 
suit of tranquillity. As to the University, it 
is, as you know, one of the oldest in Germany. 
It was founded in the fourteenth century by the 
Count Palatine Ruprecht, and had in the first 
year more than five hundred students, all busily 
committing to memory, after the old scholastic 
wise, the rules of grammar versified by Alexan¬ 
der de Villa Dei, and the extracts made by 
Peter the Spaniard from Michel Psellus’s Synop¬ 
sis of Aristotle’s Organon, and the Categories, 
with Porphyry’s Commentaries. Truly, I do 
not much wonder, that Erigena Scotus should 
have been put to death by his scholars with their 
penknives. They must have been pushed to 
the very verge of despair.” 

“ What a strange picture a university presents 
to the imagination ! The lives of scholars in 
their cloistered stillness ; — literary men of re¬ 
tired habits, and professors who study sixteen 
hours a day, and never see the world but on a 


A ROMANCE. 


57 


Sunday. Nature has, no doubt, for some wise 
purpose, placed in their hearts this love of litera¬ 
ry labor and seclusion. Otherwise, who would 
feed the undying lamp of thought ^ But for 
such men as these, a blast of wind through the 
chinks and crannies of this old world, or the 
flapping of a conqueror’s banner, would blow it 
out for ever. The light of the soul is easily 
extinguished. And whenever I reflect upon 
these things, I become aware of the great impor¬ 
tance, in a nation’s history, of the individual 
fame of scholars and literary men. I fear that 
it is far greater than the world is willing to ac¬ 
knowledge ; or, perhaps I should say, than the 
world has thought of acknowledging. Blot out 
from England’s history the names of Chaucer, 
Shakspeare, Spenser, and Milton only, and how 
much of her glory would you blot out with them! 
Take from Italy such names as Dante, Petrarch, 
Boccaccio, Michel Angelo, and Raphael, and 
how much would be wanting to the completeness 
of her glory ! How would the history of Spain 
look, if the leaves were torn out on which are, 
written the names of Cervantes, Lope de Vega, 
and Calderon ? What would be the fame of 
Portugal, without her Camoens; of France, 


58 


HYPERION, 


without her Racine, and Rabelais, and Voltaire ; 
or Germany, without her Martin Luther, her 
Goethe, and her Schiller ? —Nay, what were the 
nations of old, without their philosophers, poets, 
and historians ? Tell me, do not these men, in 
all ages and in all places, emblazon with bright 
colors the armorial bearings of their country ? 
Yes, and far more than this ; for in all ages and 
in all places they give humanity assurance of its 
greatness, and say, —‘Call riot this time or peo¬ 
ple wholly barbarous ; for thus much, even then 
and there, could the human mind achieve ! ’ But 
the boisterous world has hardly thought of ac¬ 
knowledging all this. Therein it has shown 
itself somewhat ungrateful. Else, whence the 
great reproach, the general scorn, the loud de¬ 
rision, with which, to take a familiar example, 
the monks of the Middle Ages are regarded ? 
That they slept their lives away is most untrue. 
For in an age when books were few, — so few, 
so precious, that' they were often chained to 
their oaken shelves with iron chains, like galley- 
.slaves to their benches, — these men, with their 
laborious hands, copied upon parchment all the 
lore and wisdom of the past, and transmitted it 
to us. Perhaps it is not too much to say, that. 


A ROMANCE. 


59 


but for these monks, not one line of the classics 
would have reached our day. Surely, then, 
we can pardon something to those superstitious 
ages, perhaps even the mysticism of the scholas¬ 
tic philosophy ; since, after all, we can find no 
harm in it, only the mistaking of the possible for 
the real, and tlie high aspirings of the human 
mind after a long-sought and unknowm somewhat. 
I think the name of Martin Luther, the monk of 
Wittemherg, alone sufficient to redeem all monk¬ 
hood from the reproach of laziness. If this will 
not, perhaps the vast folios of Thomas Aquinas 
wall; — or the countless manuscripts, still treas¬ 
ured in old libraries, whose yellow and wrinkled 
pages remind one of the hands that wrote them, 
and the faces that once bent over them.” 

‘‘ An eloquent homily,” said the Baron, laugh¬ 
ing ; “a most touching appeal in behalf of suffer¬ 
ing humanity ! For my part, I am no friend 
of this entire seclusion from the world. It has 
a very injurious effect on the mind of a scholar. 
The Chinese proverb is true ; a single conversa¬ 
tion across the table with a wise man is better 
than ten years’ mere study of books. I have 
known some of these literary men who thus 
shut themselves up from the world. Their 


60 


HYPERION, 


minds never come in contact with those of their 
fellow-men. They read little. They think 
much. They are mere dreamers. They know 
not what is new nor what is old. They often 
strike upon trains of thought, which stand writ¬ 
ten in good authors some century or so hack, 
and are even current in the mouths of men around 
them. But they know it not ; and imagine they 
are bringing forward something very original, 
when they publish their thoughts.” 

“ It reminds me,” replied Flemming, “ of 
what Dr. Johnson said of Goldsmith, when he 
proposed to travel abroad in order to bring home 
improvements : — ‘ He will bring home a wheel¬ 
barrow, and call that an improvement.’ It is 
unfortunately the same with some of these schol¬ 
ars.” 

“And the worst of it is,” said the Baron, 
“ that, in solitude, some fixed idea will often 
take root in the mind, and grow till it overshadow 
all one’s thoughts. To this must all opinions 
come ; no thought can enter there, which shall 
not be wedded to the fixed idea. There it re¬ 
mains, and grows. It is like the watchman’s 
wife, in the Tower of Waiblingen, who grew to 
such a size, that she could not get down the 


A ROMANCE. 


61 


narrow staircase ; and when her husband died, 
his successor was forced to marry the fat widow 
in the Tower.” 

“ I remember an old English comedy,” said 
Flemming, laughing, “ in which a scholar is de¬ 
scribed as ‘ a creature that can strike fire in the 
morning at his tinder-box, — put on a pair of 
lined slippers, — sit ruminating till dinner, and 
then go to his meat when the bell rings ; — one 
that hath a peculiar gift in a cough, and a license 
to spit ; — or, if you will have him defined by 
negatives, he is one that cannot make a good 
leg, — one that cannot eat a mess of broth 
cleanly.’ What think you of that ^ ” 

“ That is just as people are always repre¬ 
sented in English comedy,” said the Baron. 
‘‘ The portrait is overcharged, — caricatured.” 

“And yet,” continued Flemming, “no longer 
ago than yesterday, in the preface of a work by 
a Professor of Philosophy in the University of 
Halle I read this passage.” 

He opened a book and read. 

“Here in Halle, where we have no public 
garden and no Tivoli, no London Exchange, 
no Paris Chamber of Deputies, no Berlin nor 
Vienna theatres, no Strasburg Minster nor 


62 


HYPERION, 


Salzburg Alps, no Grecian ruins nor fantastic 
Catholicism, — in fine, nothing, which, after one’s 
daily task is finished, can divert and refresh 
him, without his knowing or caring how, — I 
consider the sight of a proof-sheet quite as de¬ 
lightful as a walk in the Prater of Vienna. I fill 
my pipe very quietly, take out my inkstand and 
pens, seat myself in the corner of my sofa, .read, 
correct, and now for the first time really set 
about thinking what I have written. To see 
this origin of a hook, this metamorphosis of man¬ 
uscript into print, is a delight to which I give 
myself up entirely. Look you, — this melancholy 
pleasure, which would have furnished the depart¬ 
ed Voss wdth worthy matter for more than one 
blessed Idyl (the more so, as on such occa¬ 
sions I am generally arrayed in a morning gown, 
though, I am sorry to say, not a calamanco one, 
with great flowers),— this melancholy pleasure 
has already grown here in Halle to a sweet, 
pedantic habit. Since I began my hermit’s 
life here, I have been printing ; and so long as 
I remain here, I shall keep on printing. In all 
probability, I shall die with a proof-sheet in my 
hand.” 

“This,” said Flemming, closing the book. 


A ROMANCE. 


63 


“is no caricature by a writer of comedy, but 
a portrait by a man’s own hand. We can see 
by it how easily, under certain circumstances, 
one may glide into habits of seclusion, and in 
a kind of undress, slipshod hardihood, with a 
pipe and a proof-sheet, defy the world. Into 
this state scholars have too often fallen ; thus 
giving some ground for the prevalent opinion, 
that scholarship and rusticity are inseparable. 
To me, I confess, it is painful to see the scholar 
and the world assume so often a hostile attitude, 
and set each other at defiance. Surely, it is a 
characteristic trait of a great and liberal mind, 
that it recognizes humanity in all its forms and 
conditions. I am a student; — and always, 
when I sit alone at night, I recognize the divinity 
of the student, as she reveals herself to me in 
the flame of the midnight lamp. But, because 
solitude and books are not unpleasant tome,— 
nay, wished-for, — sought after, — shall I say 
to my brother, ‘ Thou fool ! ’ — Shall I take the 
world by the beard, and say, ‘ Thou art old, and 
mad ! ’ — Shall I look society in the face, and 
say, ‘ Thou art heartless ! ’ — Heartless ! Be¬ 
ware of that word ! The good Jean Paul says 
very wisely, that ‘Life in every shape should 


64 


HYPERION 


be precious to us, for the same reason that the 
Turks carefully collect every scrap of paper that 
comes in their way, because the name of God 
may be written upon it.’ Nothing is more true 
than this, yet nothing more neglected ! ” 

“If it be painful to see this misunderstanding 
between scholars and the world,” said the Baron, 
“ I think it is still more painful to see the pri¬ 
vate sufferings of authors by profession. How 
many have languished in poverty, how many 
died broken-hearted, how many gone mad with 
over-excitement and disappointed hopes ! How 
instructive and painfully interesting are their 
lives ! with so many weaknesses, — so much to 
pardon, — so much to pity, — so much to ad¬ 
mire ! I think he was not so far out of the way, 
who said, that, next to the Newgate Calendar, 
the Biography of Authors is the most sickening 
chapter in the history of man.” 

“It is indeed enough to make one’s heart 
ache ! ” interrupted Flemming. “ Only think 
of Johnson and Savage, rambling about the 
streets of London at midnight, without a place 
to sleep in ; Otway starved to death ; Collins 
mad, and howling like a dog, through the aisles 
of Chichester Cathedral, at the sound of church 


A ROMANCE. 


65 


music ! and Goldsmith, strutting up Fleet Street 
in his peach-blossom coat, to knock a bookseller 
over the pate with one of his own volumes ; and 
then, in his poverty, about to marry his landlady 
in Green Arbour Court.” 

“ A life of sorrow and privation, a hard life, 
indeed, do these poor devil authors have of it,” 
replied the Baron ; “ and then at last must get 
them to the workhouse, or creep away into 
some hospital to die.” 

After all,” said Flemming, with a sigh, ‘‘ pov¬ 
erty is not a crime.” 

“ But something worse,’’ interrupted the Bar¬ 
on ; “as Dufresny said, when he married his 
laundress, because he could not pay her bill. 
He was the author, as you know, of the opera 
of Lot; at whose representation the great pun 
was made; — I say the great pun, as we say 
the great Tun of Heidelberg. As one of the per¬ 
formers was singing the line, ‘ Uamour a vaincu 
Loth,^ (vingt culottes^) a voice from the pit 
cried out, ‘ QuHl en donne une d Vauteur / ’ ” 
Flemming laughed at the unseasonable jest; 
and then, after a short pause, continued : — 

“ And yet, if you look closely at the causes 
of these calamities of authors, you will find that 
5 



66 


HYPERION. 


many of them spring from false and exaggerated 
ideas of poetry and the poetic character ; and 
from disdain of common sense, upon which all 
character, worth having, is founded. This comes 
from keeping aloof from the world, apart from 
our fellow-men ; disdainful of society, as frivo¬ 
lous. By too much sitting still the body becomes 
unhealthy ; and soon the mind. This is nature’s 
law. She will never see her children wronged. 
If the mind, which rules the body, ever forgets 
itself so far as to trample upon its slave, the 
slave is never generous enough to forgive the 
injury; but will rise^ and smite its oppressor. 
Thus has many a monarch mind been dethroned.” 

After all,” said the Baron, “ we must par¬ 
don much to men of genius. A delicate organ¬ 
ization renders them keenly susceptible to pain 
and pleasure. And then they idealize every 
thing; and, in the moonlight of fancy, even the 
deformity of vice seems beautiful.” 

“ And this you think should be forgiven ? ” 

‘‘ At all events, it is forgiven. The world 
loves a spice of wickedness. Talk as you will 
about principle, impulse is more attractive, even 
when it goes too far. The passions of youth, 
like unhooded hawks, fly high, with musical 



A ROMANCE. 


67 


bells upon their jesses ; and we forget the cruelty 
of the sport in the dauntless bearing of the gal¬ 
lant bird.” * 

And thus do the world and society corrupt 
the scholar ! ” exclaimed Flemming. 

Here the Baron rang, and ordered a bottle of 
Prince Metternich. He then very slowly filled 
his pipe, and began to smoke. Flemming was 
lost in a day-dream. 


68 


HYPERION, 


CHAPTER VIII. 

LITERARY FAME. 

Time has a Doomsday-Book, upon whose 
pages he is continually recording illustrious names. 
But, as often as a new name is written there, an 
old one disappears. Only a few" stand in illumi¬ 
nated characters, never to be effaced. These 
are the high nobility of Nature, — Lords of the 
Public Domain of Thought. Posterity shall 
never question their titles. But those, whose 
fame lives only in the indiscreet opinion of un¬ 
wise men, must soon be as well forgotten as if 
they had never been. To this great oblivion 
must most men com . It is better, therefore, 
that they should soon make up their minds to 
this ; well knowing, that, as their bodies must 
ere long be resolved into dust again, and their 
graves tell no tales of them ; so must their names 
likewise be utterly forgotten, and their most 


A ROMANCE. 


69 


cherished thoughts, purposes, and opinions have 
no longer an individual being among men, but be 
resolved and incorporated into the universe of 
thought. If, then, the imagination can trace the 
noble dust of heroes, till we find it stopping a 
beer-barrel, and know that 

“ Imperial Caesar, dead and turned to clay, 

May stop a hole to keep the wind away ” ; 

not less can it trace the noble thoughts of great 
men, till it finds them mouldered into the common 
dust of conversation, and used to stop men’s 
mouths, and patch up theories, to keep out the 
flaws of opinion. Such, for example, are all 
popular adages and wise proverbs, which are 
now resolved into the common mass of thought; 
their atfthors forgotten, and having no more an 
individual being among men. 

It is better, therefore, that men should soon 
make up their minds to be forgotten, and look 
about them, or within them, for some higher mo¬ 
tive, in what they do, than the approbation of 
men, which is Fame ; namely, their duty ; that 
they should be constantly and quietly at work, 
each in his sphere, regardless of effects, and 
leaving their fame to take care of itself. Diffi¬ 
cult must this indeed be, in our imperfection ; 


70 


KVPERION, 


impossible, perhaps, to achieve it wholly. Yet 
the resolute, the indomitable will of man can 
achieve much, — at times, even this victory over 
himself; being persuaded that fame comes only 
when deserved, and then is as inevitable as des¬ 
tiny, for it is destiny. 

It has become a common saying, that men 
of genius are always in advance of their age ; 
which is true. There is something equally true, 
yet not so common ; namely, that, of these men 
of genius, the best and bravest are in advance 
not only of their own age, but of every age. 
As the German prose-poet says, every possible 
future is behind them. We cannot suppose that 
a period of time will ever arrive, when the world, 
or any considerable portion of it, shall hav*e come 
up abreast with these great minds, so as fully to 
comprehend them. 

And, O, how majestically they \vu\k in his¬ 
tory ; some like the sun, “ with all his travel- 
elling glories round him ’’; others wrapped in 
gloom, yet glorious as a night with stars! 
Through the else silent darkness of the past, 
the spirit hears their slow and solemn footsteps. 
Onward they pass, like those hoary elders seen 
in the sublime vision of an earthly paradise. 


A ROMANCE 


71 


attendant angels bearing golden lights before 
them, and, above and behind, the whole air 
painted with seven listed colors, as from the trail 
of pencils ! 

And yet, on earth, these men were not hap¬ 
py,—not all happy, in the outward circumstance 
of their lives. They were in want, and in pain, 
and familiar with prison-bars, and the damp, 
weeping walls of dungeons ! O, I have looked 
with wonder upon those, who, in sorrow and 
privation, and bodily discomfort, and sickness, 
which is the shadow of death, have w’orked right 
on to the accomplishment of their great purpos¬ 
es ; toiling much, enduring much, fulfilling 
much ; — and then, with shattered nerves, and 
sinews all unstrung, have laid themselves down 
in the grave, and slept the sleep of death, — and 
the world talks of them, while they sleep ! 

It would seem, indeed, as if all their sufferings 
had but sanctified them ; as if the death-angel, 
in passing, had touched them with the hem of 
his garment, and made them holy; as if the 
hand of disease had been stretched out over 
them only to make the sign of the cross upon 
their souls 1 And as in the sun’s eclipse we can 
behold the great stars shining in the heavens, 


72 


HYPERION 


SO in this life-eclipse have these men beheld the 
lights of the great eternity, burning solemnly and 
forever ! 

This was Flemming’s reverie. It w^as bro¬ 
ken by the voice of the Baron, suddenly exclaim¬ 
ing :— 

“An angel is flying over the house ! — Here, 
in this goblet, fragrant as the honey of Hymettus, 
fragrant as the wild flowers in the Angel’s Mead¬ 
ow, I drink to the divinity of thy dreams.” 

“ This is all sunshine,” said Flemming, as he 
drank. “ The wine of the Prince, and the 
Prince of wines. By the way, did you ever 
read that brilliant Italian dithyrambic, Redi’s 
Bacchus in Tuscany ^ an ode which seems to 
have been poured out of the author’s soul, as 
from a golden pitcher, 

‘ Filled with the wine 
Of the vine 
Benign, 

That flames so red in Sansovine.’ 

He calls the Montepulciano the king of all wines.” 

“Prince Metternich,” said the Baron, “is 
greater than any king in Italy ; and I wonder 
that this precious wine has never inspired a Ger¬ 
man poet to write a Bacchus on the Rhine. 


A ROMANCE. 


73 


Many little songs we have on this theme, hut 
none very extraordinary. The best are Max 
Schenkendorf’s Song of the Rhine, and the 
Song of Rhine Wine, by Claudius, a poet who 
never drank Rhenish without sugar. We will 
drink for him a blessing on the Rhine.” 

And again the crystal lips of the goblets kissed 
each other, with a musical chime, as of evening 
bells at vintage-time from the villages on the 
Rhine. Of a truth, I do not much wonder 
that the German poet Schiller loved to write 
by candle-light with a bottle of Rhine-wine upon 
the table. Nor do I wonder at the worthy 
schoolmaster, Roger Ascham, when he says, in 
one of his letters from Germany to Mr. John 
Raven, of John’s College : “Tell Mr. Maden 
I will drink with him now a carouse of wine ; 
and would to God he had a vessel of Rhenish 
wine; and perchance, when I come to Cam¬ 
bridge, I will so provide here, that every year I 
will have a little piece of Rhenish wine.” Nor, 
in fine, do I wonder at the German emperor 
of whom he speaks in another letter to the same 
John Raven, and says, “ The emperor drank 
the best that I ever saw ; he had his head in 
the glass five times as long as any of us, and 


74 


HYPERION, 


never drank less than a good quart at once of 
Rhenish wine.” 

‘‘ But to resume our old theme of scholars 
^nd their whereabout,” said the Baron, with an 
-unusual glow, caught, no doubt, from the golden 
sunshine, imprisoned, like the student Anselmus, 
:in the glass bottle ; “ where should the scholar 
ilive ? In solitude, or in society ? in the green 
stillness of the country, where he can hear the 
heart of Nature beat; or in the dark, gray town, 
where he can hear and feel the throbbing heart 
of man ? I will make answer for him, and say, 
in the dark, gray town. O, they do greatly 
err, who think that the stars are all the poetry 
which cities have ; and therefore that the poet’s 
only dwelling should be in sylvan solitudes, under 
the green roof of trees. Beautiful, no doubt, 
are all the forms of Nature, when transfigured 
by the miraculous power of poetry ; hamlets 
and harvest-fields, and nut-brown waters, flowing 
ever under the forest, vast and shadowy, with 
all the sights and sounds of rural life. But after 
all, what are these but the decorations and paint¬ 
ed scenery in the great theatre of human life } 
What are they but the coarse materials of the 
poet’s song ? Glorious indeed is the world of 


A ROMANCE. 


75 


God around us, but more glorious the world of 
God within us. There lies the Land of Song ; 
there lies the poet’s native land. The river of 
life, that flows through streets tumultuous, bear¬ 
ing along so many gallant hearts, so many wrecks 
of humanity ; — the many homes and house¬ 
holds, each a little world in itself, revolving 
round its fireside, as a central sun ; all forms of 
human joy and suffering, brought into that nar¬ 
row compass ;—and to be in this, and be a part 
of this ; acting, thinking, rejoicing, sorrowing, 
with his fellow-men ; — such, such should be the 
poet’s life. If he would describe the world, he 
should live in the world. The mind of the 
scholar, if you would have it large and liberal, 
should come in contact with other minds. It 
is better that his armor should be somewhat 
bruised by rude encounters even, than hang for 
ever rusting on the wall. Nor will his themes be 
few or trivial, because apparently shut in between 
the walls of houses, and having merely the dec¬ 
orations of street scenery. A ruined character 
is as picturesque as a ruined castle. There are 
dark abysses and yawning gulfs in the human 
heart, which can be rendered passable only by 
bridging them over with* iron nerves and sinews. 


76 


HYPERION, 


as Challey bridged the Sarine in Switzerland, 
and Telford the sea between Anglesea and Eng¬ 
land, with chain bridges. These are the great 
themes of human thought ; not green grass, and 
flowers, and moonlight. Besides, the mere ex¬ 
ternal forms of Nature we make our own, and 
carry with us everywhere, by the power of mem¬ 
ory.’’ 

“ I fear, however,” interrupted Flemming, 
‘‘that in towns the soul of man grows proud. He 
needs at times to he sent forth, like the Assyrian 
monarch, into green fields, ‘ a wondrous wretch 
and weedless,’ to eat green herbs, and be wak¬ 
ened and chastised by the rain shower and win¬ 
ter’s bitter weather. Moreover, in cities there 
is danger of the soul’s becoming wed to pleas¬ 
ure, and forgetful of its high vocation. There 
have been souls dedicated to heaven from child¬ 
hood, and guarded by good angels as sweet se¬ 
clusions for holy thoughts, and prayers, and all 
good purposes ; wherein pious wishes dwelt like 
nuns, and every image was a saint; and yet in 
life’s vicissitudes, by the treachery of occasion, 
by the thronging passions of great cities, have 
become soiled and sinful. They resemble those 
convents on the river Rhine, which have been 


A ROMANCE. 


77 


changed to taverns ; from whose chambers the 
pious inmates have long departed, and in whose 
cloisters the footsteps of travellers have effaced 
the images of buried saints, and whose w^alls are 
written over with ribaldry and the names of stran¬ 
gers, and resound no more with holy hymns, but 
with revelry and loud voices.” 

“ Both town and country have their dangers,” 
said the Baron ; “ and therefore, wherever the 
scholar lives, he must never forget his high voca¬ 
tion. Other artists give themselves up wholly 
to the study of their art. It becomes with them 
almost religion. For the most part, and in their 
youth, at least, they dwell in lands where the 
whole atmosphere of the soul is beauty ; laden 
with it, as the air may be with vapor, till their 
very nature is saturated with the genius of their 
art. Such, for example, is the artist’s life in 
Italy.” 

I agree with you,” exclaimed Flemming ; 
“ and such should be the poet’s everywhere ; 
for he has his Rome, his Florence, his whole 
glowing Italy, within the four walls of his library. 
He has in his books the ruins of an antique 
world, — and the glories of a modern one, — 
^’s Apollo and Transfiguration. He must nei- 


78 


HYPERION 


ther forget nor undervalue his vocation; but thank 
God that he is a poet; and everywhere be true 
to himself, and to ‘ the vision and the faculty 
divine’ he recognizes within him.” 

“ But, at any rate, a town life is most event¬ 
ful,” continued the Baron. “ The men who 
make, or take, the lives of poets, and scholars, 
always complain that these lives are barren of 
incidents. Hardly a literary biography begins 
without some such apology, unwisely made. I 
confess, however, that it is^ not made without 
some show of truth ; if, by incidents, w^e mean 
only those startling events which suddenly turn 
aside the stream of time, and change the world’s 
history in an hour. There is certainly a uniform¬ 
ity, pleasing or unpleasing, in literary life, which 
for the most part makes to-day seem twin-born 
with yesterday. But if, by incidents, you mean 
events in the history of the human mind, (and 
why not .^) noiseless events, that do not scar 
the forehead of the world as battles do, yet change 
it not the less, then surely the lives of literary 
men are most eventful. The complaint and the 
apology are both foolish. I do not see why a 
successful book is not as great an event as a 
successful campaign ; only different in kind, and 
not easily compared.” 


A ROMANCE. 


79 


“ Indeed,’’ interrupted Flemming, “ in no 
sense is the complaint strictly true, though at 
times apparently so. Events enough there are, 
were they all set down. A life, that is worth 
writing at all, is worth writing minutely. Be¬ 
sides, all literary men have not lived in silence 
and solitude;—not all in stillness, not all in 
shadow. For many have lived in troubled times, 
in the rude and adverse fortunes of the state and 
age, and could say, with Wallenstein, 

‘ Our life 'was but a battle and a march; 

And, like the wind’s blast, never-resting, homeless. 

We stormed across the war-convulsed earth.’ 

Many such examples has history recorded; Dante, 
Cervantes, Byron, and others; men of iron ; men 
who have dared to breast the strong breath of 
public opinion, and, like spectre-ships, come 
sailing right against the wind. Others have been 
puffed out by the first adverse wind that blew ; 
disgraced and sorrowful, because they could not 
please others. Had they been men, they would 
have made these disappointments their best 
friends, and learned from them the needful lesson 
of self-reliance.” 

“To confess the truth,” added the Baron, 


80 


HYPERION, 


the lives of literary men, with their hopes and 
disappointments, and quarrels and calamities, 
present a melancholy picture of man’s strength 
and w^eakness. On that very account the scholar 
can make them profitable for encouragement, con¬ 
solation, warning.” 

“ And after all,” continued Flemming, ‘‘ per¬ 
haps the greatest lesson, which the lives of lit¬ 
erary men teach us, is told in a single word : 
Wait!—Every man'must patiently hide his 
time. He must wait. More particularly in 
lands, like my native land, where the pulse of 
life beats with such feverish and impatient throbs, 
is the lesson needful. Our national character 
wants the dignity of repose. We seem to live 
in the midst of a battle, — there is such a din, 
such a hurrying to and fro. In the streets of a 
crowded city it is difficult to walk slowly. You 
feel the rushing of the crowd, and rush with it 
onw^ard. In the press of our life it is difficult to 
be calm. In this stress of wind and tide, all 
professions seem to drag their anchors, and are 
swept out into the main. The voices of the 
Present say, ‘ Come ! ’ But the voices of the 
Past say, ‘ Wait ! ’ With calm and solemn 
footsteps the rising tide bears against the rushing 


A ROMANCE. 


81 


torrent up stream, and pushes back the hurrying 
waters. With no less calm and solemn footsteps, 
nor less certainly, does a great mind bear up 
against public opinion, and push back its hurry¬ 
ing stream. Therefore should every man wait, 

— should bide his time. Not in listless idleness, 

— not in useless pastime, — not in querulous 
dejection ; but in constant, steady, cheerful en¬ 
deavours, always willing and fulfilling, and accom¬ 
plishing his task, that, when the occasion comes, 
he may be equal to the occasion. And if it 
never comes, what matters* it ^ What matters 
it to the world, whether I, or you, or another 
man did such a deed, or wrote such a book, 
sobeit the deed and book were well done ^ It 
is the part of an indiscreet and troublesome am¬ 
bition to care too much about fame, — about 
what the world says of us ; — to be always look¬ 
ing into the faces of others for approval ; to 
be always anxious for the effect of what we do 
and say ; to be always shouting to hear the echo 
of our own voices. If you look about you, you 
will see men who are wearing life away in fever¬ 
ish anxiety of fame, and the last we shall ever 
hear of them will be the funeral bell that tolls 
them to their early graves ! Unhappy men, and 

G 


82 


HYPERION, 


unsuccessful ! because their purpose is, not to 
accomplish well their task, but to clutch the 
‘ trick and fantasy of fame ’ ; and they go to their 
graves with purposes unaccomplished and wishes 
unfulfilled. Better for them, and for the world 
in their example, had they known how to wait • 
Believe me, the talent of success is nothing more 
than doing what you can do well ; and doing well 
whatever you do, — without a thought of fame. 
If it come at all, it will come because it is deserv¬ 
ed, not because it is sought after. And, more¬ 
over, there will be no misgivings, no disap¬ 
pointment, no hasty, feverish, exhausting ex¬ 
citement.’’ 


Thus endeth the First Book of Hyperion. I 
make no record of the winter. Paul Flemming 
buried himself in books ; in old, dusty books. 
He worked his way diligently through the ancient 
poetic lore of Germany, from Frankish Legends 
of Saint George, and Saxon Rhyme-Chronicles, 
and Nibelungen-Lieds, and Helden-Buchs, and 
Songs of the Minnesingers and Mastersingers, 
and Ships of Fools, and Reynard the Foxes, and 



A ROMANCE. 


83 


Death-Dances, and Lamentations of Damned 
Souls, into the bright, sunny land of harvests, 
where, amid the golden grain and the blue corn¬ 
flowers, walk the modern bards, and sing. 





I 





BOOK THE SECOND. 


“ Something the heart must have to cherish, 
Must love, and joy, and sorrow learn; 
Something with passion clasp, or perish. 
And in itself to ashes burn.” 




' ' V-* 








BOOK THE SECOND 


\ 


CHAPTER I. 

SPRING. 

It was a sweet carol, which the Rhodian chil¬ 
dren sang of old in Spring, bearing in their hands, 
from door to door, a swallow, as herald of the 
season : — 

“ The Swallow is come ! 

The Swallow is come ! 

O, fair are the seasons, and light 
Are the days that she brings, 

• With her dusky wings. 

And her bosom snowy white! ” 

A pretty carol, too, is that, which the Hunga¬ 
rian boys, on the islands of the Danube, sing to 
the returning stork in Spring : — 

“ Stork ! Stork ! poor Stork ! 

Why is thy foot so bloody ? 

A Turkish boy hath torn it; 

Hungarian boy will heal it. 

With fiddle, fife, and drum.” 



88 


HYPERION, 


But what child has a heart to sing in this ca¬ 
pricious clime of ours, where Spring comes sail¬ 
ing in from the sea, with wet and heavy cloud- 
sails, and the misty pennon of the East-wind 
nailed to the mast ? Yet even here, and in the 
stormy month of March even, there are bright, 
warm mornings, when we open our windows to 
inhale the balmy air. The pigeons fly to and 
fro, and we hear the whirring sound of wings. 
Old flies crawl out of the cracks, to sun them¬ 
selves ; and think it is Summer. They die in 
their conceit; and so do our hearts within us, 
when the cold sea-breath comes from the eastern 
sea, and again 

“ The driving liail 

Upon the window beats with icy flail.” 

The red-flowering maple is first in blossom, 
its beautiful purple flowers unfolding a fortnight 
before the leaves. The moose-wood follows, 
with rose-colored buds and leaves ; and the 
dog-wood, robed in the white of its own pure 
blossoms. Then comes the sudden rain-storm ; 
and the birds fly to and fro, and shriek. Where 
do they hide themselves in such storms ? at what 
firesides dry their feathery cloaks } At the fire¬ 
side of the great, hospitable sun ; to-morrow, not 


A ROMANCE. 


89 


before ; — they must sit m wet garments until 
then. 

In all climates Spring is beautiful. In the 
South it is intoxicating, and sets a poet beside 
himself. The birds begin to sing ; — they utter 
a few rapturous notes, and then wait for an an¬ 
swer in the silent woods. Those green-coated 
musicians, the frogs, make holiday in the neigh¬ 
bouring marshes. They, too, belong to the or¬ 
chestra of Nature ; whose vast theatre is again 
opened, though the doors have been so long 
Doited with icicles, and the scenery hung with 
snow and frost like cobwebs. This is the pre¬ 
lude which announces the opening of the scene. 
Already the grass shoots forth. The waters 
leap with thrilling pulse through the veins of 
the earth; the sap through the veins of the 
plants and trees ; and the blood through the 
veins of man. What a thrill of delight in Spring¬ 
time ! What a joy in being and moving ! Men 
are at work in gardens ; and in the air there is 
an odor of the fresh earth. The leaf-buds begin 
to swell and blush. The white blossoms of the 
cherry hang upon the boughs like snow-flakes ; 
and ere long our next-door neighbours will be com¬ 
pletely hidden from us by the dense green foli- 


90 


HYPERION, 


age. The May-flowers open thew soft blue 
eyes. Children are let loose in the fields and 
gardens. They hold buttercups under each 
others’ chins, to see if they love butter. And 
the little girls adorn themselves with chains and 
curls of dandelions ; pull out the yellow leaves, 
to see if the schoolboy loves them, and blow the 
down from the leafless stalk, to find out if their 
mothers want them at home. 

And at night so cloudless and so still ! Not a 
voice of living thing, — not a whisper of leaf or 
waving bough, —not a breath of wind, — not a 
sound upon the earth nor in the air ! And over¬ 
head bends the blue sky, dewy and soft, and ra¬ 
diant with innumerable stars, like the inverted 
bell of some blue flower, sprinkled with golden 
dust, and breathing fragrance. Or if the heav¬ 
ens are overcast, it is no wild storm of wind and 
rain ; but clouds that melt and fall in showers. 
One does not wish to sleep ; but lies awake to 
hear the pleasant sound of the dropping rain. 

It was thus the Spring began in Heidelberg. 


A ROMANCE. 


91 


CHAPTER II. 

A COLLOQUY. 

‘‘ And what think you of ‘Tiedge’s Urania ? ” 
said the Baron, smiling, as Paul Flemming closed 
the book, and laid it upon the table. 

“ I think,’’ said Flemming, that it is very 
much like Jean Paul’s grandfather, — in the high¬ 
est degree poor and pious.” 

“ Bravo ! ” exclaimed the Baron. That is 
the best criticism I have heard upon the book. 
For my part, I dislike it as much as Goethe did. 
It was once very popular, and lay about in every 
parlour and bed-room. This annoyed the old 
gentleman exceedingly ; and I do not wonder 
at it. He complains, that at one time nothing 
I was sung or said but this Urania. He believed 
I in Immortality ; but wished to cherish his belief 
I in quietness. He once told a friend of his, that 
I he had, however, learned one thing from all this 


92 


HYPERION; 


talk about Tiedge and his Urania ; which was, 
that the saints, as well as the nobility, constitute 
an aristocracy. He said he found stupid women, 
who were proud because they believed in Immor¬ 
tality with Tiedge, and had to submit himself to 
not a few mysterious catechizings and tea-table 
lectures on this point; and that he cut them short 
by saying, that he had no objection whatever to 
enter into another state of existence hereafter, 
but prayed only that he might be spared the honor 
of meeting there any of those who had believed 
in it here; for, if he did, they would flock 
around him on all sides, exclaiming, ‘ Were we 
not in the right ? Did we not tell you so ^ Has 
it not all turned out just as we said.^’” 

‘‘ How shocked the good old ladies must have 
been ! ” said Flemming. 

No doubt, their nerves suffered a little ; but 
the young women loved him all the better for be¬ 
ing witty and wicked; and thought, if they could 
only marry him, how they would reform him.” 

“ Bettina Brentano, for instance.” 

“ O, no ! That happened long afterwards. 
Goethe was then an old man of sixty. She had 
never seen him, and knew him only by his writ 
ings ; a romantic girl of seventeen.” 


A ROMANCE. 


93 


“ And yet much in love with the sexagenari¬ 
an. And surely, a more wild, fantastic passion 
never sprang up in woman’s breast. She was a 
flower that worshipped the sun.” 

‘‘ She afterwards married Achim von Arnim, 
and is now a widow. And not the least singular 
part of the affair is, that, having grown older, 
and I hope colder, she should herself publish the 
letters which passed between her and Goethe.” 

“ Particularly the letter in which she describes 
her first visit to Weimar, and her interview with 
the hitherto invisible divinity of her dreams. The 
old gentleman took her upon his knees, and she 
fell asleep with her head upon his shoulder. 
Oberon must have touched her eyes with the 
juice of Love-in-idleness. However, this book 
of Goethe’s Correspondence with a Child is a 
very singular and valuable revelation of the feel¬ 
ings which he excited in female hearts. Yoi 
say she afterwards married Achim von Arnim ? ” 

“ Yes ; and he and her brother, Clemens 
Brentano, published that wondrous book, the 
Boy’s Wonder-Horn.” 

“ The Boy’s Wonder-Horn ! ” said Flem¬ 
ming, after a short pause, for the name seemed 
to have thrown him into a reverie ; — “I know 


94 


HYPERION, 


the book almost by heart. Of all your German 
books, it is the one which produces upon my 
imagination the most wild and magic influence. 
I have a passion for ballads ! ’’ 

“ And who has not ? ” said the Baron, with a 
smile. ‘‘ They are the gypsy-children of song, 
born under green hedgerows, in the leafy lanes 
and by-paths of literature,—in the genial Sum¬ 
mer-time.” 

“ Why do you say Summer-time, and not Sum¬ 
mer ? ” inquired Flemming. “The expression 
reminds me of your old Minnesingers; — of 
Heinrich von Ofterdingen, and Walther von der 
Vogelweide, and Count Kraft von Toggenburg, 
and your own ancestor, I dare say, Burkhart von 
Hohenfels. They were always singing of the 
gentle Summer-time. They seem to have lived 
poetry, as well as sung it; like the birds who 
make their marriage beds in the voluptuous trees.” 
“ Is that from Shakspeare ? ” 

“ No ; from Lope de Vega.” 

“ You are deeply read in the lore of antiquity, 
and the Aubades and Watch-Songs of the old 
Minnesingers. What do you think of the shoe¬ 
maker poets that came after them, — with their 
guilds and singing-schools } It makes me laugh 


A ROMANCE. 


95 


to think how the great streams of your German 
Helicon, shrunk to small rivulets, go bubbling and 
gurgling over the pebbly names of Zwinger, 
Wurgendrussel, Buchenlin, Hellfire, Old Stoll, 
Young Stoll, Strong Bopp, Dang Brotscheim, 
Batt Spiegel, Peter Pfort, and Martin Gumpel. 
And then the Corporation of the Twelve Wise 
Masters, with their stumpfe-reime and klingende- 
reime, and their Hans Tindeisen’s rosemary- 
weise, and Joseph Schmierer’s flowery-para- 
dise-weise, and Frauenlob’s yellow-weise, and 
blue-weise, and frog-weise, and looking-glass- 
weise ! ” 

“ O, I entreat you,” exclaimed Flemming, 
laughing, “ do not call those men poets ! You 
transport me to quaint old Nuremberg, and I see 
Hans Sachs making shoes, and Hans Folz shav¬ 
ing the burgomaster.” 

“ By the way,” interrupted the Baron, “ did 
you ever read Hoffmann’s beautiful story of Mas¬ 
ter Martin, the Cooper of Nuremberg } I will 
read it to you this very night. It is the most 
delightful picture of that age, which you can con¬ 
ceive. But look ! the sun has already set behind 
the Alsatian hills. Let us go up to the castle 
and look for the ghost in Prince Ruprecht’s tow¬ 
er. O, what a glorious sunset ! ” 




96 HYPERION, 

Flemming looked at the evening sky, and a 
shade of sadness stole over his countenance. 
He told not to his friend the sorrow with which 
his heart was heavy, but kept it for himself alone. 
He knew that the time, which comes to all men, 
— the time to suffer and be silent, — had come 
to him likewise; and he spake no word. O, well 
has it been said, that there is no grief like the 
grief which does not speak ! 


A ROMANCE. 


97 


I 

CHAPTER III. 

OWL-TOWERS. 

“ There sils the old Frau Himmelauen, 
perched up in her owl-tower,” said the Baron 
to Flemming, as they passed along the Haupt- 
strasse. “ She looks down through her round¬ 
eyed spectacles from her nest there, and watches 
every one that goes by. T wonder what mis¬ 
chief she is hatching now. Do you know she 
has nearly ruined your character in town ? She 
says you have a rakish look, because you carry 
a cane, and your hair curls. Your gloves, also, 
are a shade too light for a strictly virtuous man.” 

“It is very kind in her to take such good 
jare of my character, particularly as I am a 
stranger in town. She is doubtless learned in 
the Clothes-Philosophy.” 

“ And ignorant of every thing else. She 
asked a friend of mine, the other day, whether 
Christ was a Catholic or a Protestant.” 


98 


HYPERION, 


“ That is really too absurd ! ” 

“ Not too absurd to be true. And, ignorant 
as she is, she contrives to do a good deal of 
mischief in the course of the year. Why, the 
women already call you Wilhelm Meister.” 

“ They are at liberty to call me what they 
please. But you, who know me better, know 
that I am something more than they would imply 
by the name.” 

‘‘ She says, moreover, that the American wo¬ 
men sit with their feet out of the window, and 
have no pocket-handkerchiefs.” 

“ Excellent ! ” 

They crossed the market-place, and went up 
beneath the grand terrace into the court-yard of 
the castle. 

“Let us go and sit under the great linden- 
trees, that grow on the summit of the Rent Tow¬ 
er,” said Flemming. “Fromthat point, as from 
a watch-tower, we can look down into the garden, 
and see the crowd below us.” 

“ And amuse ourselves, as old Frau Himmel- 
auen does, at her window in the Hauptstrasse,” 
added the Baron. 

The keeper’s daughter unlocked for them the 
door of the tower, and, climbing the steep stair- 


A ROMANCE. 


99 


case, they seated themselves on a wooden bench 
under the linden-trees. 

How beautifully these trees overgrow the old 
tower ! And see what a solid mass of masonry 
lies in the great fosse down there, toppled from 
its base by the explosion of a mine ! It is like a 
rusty helmet cleft in twain, but still crested with 
towering'plumes ! ” 

And what a motley crowd in the garden ! 
Philisters and Sons of the Muses ! And there 
goes the venerable Thibaut, taking his evening 
stroll. Do you see him there, with his silver 
hair flowing over his shoulders, and that friendly 
face, which has for so many years pored over the 
Pandects ^ I assure you, he inspires me with 
awe. And yet he is a merry old man, and loves 
his joke, particularly at the expense of Moses and 
other ancient lawgivers.” 

Here their attention was diverted by a wild¬ 
looking person, who passed with long strides un¬ 
der the archway in the fosse, right beneath them, 
and disappeared among the bushes. He was ill- 
dressed, his hair flying in the wind, his move¬ 
ments hurried and nervous, and the expression 
of his broad countenance wild, strange, and ear¬ 


nest. 


uOFC, 


100 


HYPERION, 


“ Who can that be ? ” asked Flemming. ‘‘ He 
strides away indignantly, like one of Ossian’s 
ghosts ! ” 

“ A great philosopher, whose name I have for¬ 
gotten. Truly, a strange owl ! ” 

“ He looks like a lion with a hat on.” 

“ He is a mystic, who reads Schubert’s His¬ 
tory of the Soul, and lives, for the most part, in 
the clouds of the Middle Ages. To him the 
spirit-world is still open. . He believes in the 
transmigration of souls ; and I dare say is now 
following the spirit of some departed friend, who 
has taken the form of yonder pigeon.” 

“ What a strange hallucination ! He lives, I 
suppose, in the land of cloud-shadows. And, as 
St. Thomas Aquinas was said to be lifted up 
from the ground by the fervor of his prayers, so, 
no doubt, is he by the fervor of his visions.” 

“ He certainly appears to neglect all sublunary 
things ; and, to judge from certain appearances, 
since you seem fond of holy similitudes, one 
would say, that, like St. Serapion the Sindonite, 
he had but one shirt. Yet what cares he } he 
lives in that poetic dream-land of his thoughts, 
and clothes himself in poetry.” 

“He is a poet, then,»as well as a philoso¬ 
pher ^ ” 


A ROMANCE. 


101 


“ Yes ; but a poet who never writes. There 
IS nothing in nature to which his imagination does 
not give a poetic hue. But the power to make 
others see these objects in the same poetic light 
is w^anting. Still he is a man of fine powers and 
feelings ; for next to being a great poet is the 
power of understanding one, — of finding one’s 
self in him, as we Germans say.” 

Three figures, dressed in black, now came 
from one of the green alleys, and stopped on the 
brink of a fountain that was playing among the 
gay flowers in the garden. The eldest of the 
three was a woman in that season of life when 
the early autumn gives to the summer leaves a 
warmer glow, yet fades them not. Though the 
mother of many children, she was still beautiful; 
— resembling those trees which blossom in Oc¬ 
tober, when the leaves are changing, and whose 
fruit and blossom are on the branch at once. At 
her side was a girl of some sixteen years, who 
seemed to lean upon her arm for support. Her 
figure was slight; her countenance beautiful, 
though deadly white ; and her meek eyes like 
the flower of the nightshade, pale and blue, but 
sending forth golden rays. They were attended 
by a tall youth of foreign aspect, who seemed a 


102 


HYPERION. 


young Antinoiis, with a mustache and a nose 
a la Kosciusko, In other respects a perfect hero 
of romance. 

‘‘Unless mine eyes deceive me,” said the 
Baron, “ there is the Frau von Ilmenau, with 
her pale daughter Emma, and that eternal Polish 
count. He is always hovering about them, play¬ 
ing the unhappy exile, merely to excite that poor 
girl’s sympathies; and as wretched as genius and 
wantonness can make him.” 

“ Why, he is already married, you Imow,” re¬ 
plied Flemming. “ And his wife is young and 
beautiful.” 

“ That does not prevent him from being in 
love with some one else. That question was 
decided in the Courts of Love in the Middle 
Ages. Accordingly he has sent his fair wife to 
Warsaw. But how pale the poor child looks ! ” 

“ She has just recovered from severe illness. 
In the winter, you know, it was thought she 
would not live from hour to hour.” 

“ And she has hardly recovered from that dis¬ 
ease, before she seems threatened with a worse 
one ; namely, a hopeless passion. However, 
people do not die of love now-a-days.” 

“ Seldom, perhaps,” said Flemming. “ And 


A ROMANCE. 


103 


yet it is folly to pretend that one ever wholly 
recovers from a disappointed passion. Such 
wounds always leave a scar. There are faces I 
can never look upon without emotion. There are 
names I can never hear spoken without almost 
starting.’^ 

“ But whom have we here ? ’’ 

“ That is the French poet Quinet, with his 
fair German wife ; one of the most interesting 
women I ever knew. He is the author of a very 
wild Mystery, or dramatic prose-poem, in which 
the Ocean, Mont-Blanc, and the Cathedral of 
Strasburg have parts to play ; and the saints on 
the stained windows of the minster speak, and 
the statues and dead kings enact the Dance of 
Death. It is entitled Ahasuerus, or the Wander¬ 
ing Jew.” 

“ Or, as the Danes would translate it, the 
Shoemaker of Jerusalem. That would be a 
still more fantastic title for his fantastic book. 
You know I am no great admirer of the modern 
French school of writers. The tales of Paul de 
Kock seem to me like obscene stories told at 
dinner-tables. It has been truly said of him, 
that he is not only populaire, but populacier; 
and rather harshly of George Sand and Victor 


104 


HYPERION, 


Hugo, that their works stand like fortifications, 
well built and well supplied with warlike muni¬ 
tions ; but ineffectual against the Grand Army of 
God, which marches onward, as if nothing had 
happened. In surveying a national literature, 
the point you must start from is national char¬ 
acter. That lets you into many a secret. The 
most prominent trait in the French character is 
love of amusement and excitement; and-’’ 

“ I should say, rather, the fear of ennui,” 
interrupted Flemming. “ Some one has said, 
with a great deal of truth, that ‘ the gentry of 
France rush into Paris to escape from ennui, 
as, in the noble days of chivalry, the defenceless 
inhabitants of the champaign fled into the castles, 
at the approach of some plundering knight or 
lawless baron ; forsaking the inspired twilight 
of their native groves, for the luxurious shades 
of the royal gardens.’ What do you think of 
that ? ” 

The Baron replied with a smile : — 

“ There is only one Paris; and out of Paris 
there is no salvation for decent people.” 

Thus conversing of many things, sat the two 
friends under the linden-trees on the Rent Tower, 
till gradually the crowd disappeared from the gar- 



A ROMANCE. 


105 


den, and the objects around them grew indis¬ 
tinct, in the fading twilight. Between them 
and the amber-colored western sky, the dense 
foliage of the trees looked heavy and hard, as 
if cast in bronze ; and already the evening stars 
hung like silver lamps in the towering branches 
of that Tree of Life, brought more than two 
centuries ago from its primeval paradise in 
America, to beautify the gardens of the Pala¬ 
tinate. 

“ I take a mournful pleasure in gazing at that 
tree,’’ said Flemming, as they rose to depart. 

It stands there so straight and tall, with iron 
bands around its noble trunk and limbs, in silent 
majesty, or whispering only in its native tongue, 
and freighting the homeward wind with sighs ! 
It reminds me of some captive monarch of a 
savage tribe, brought over the vast ocean for 
a show, and chained in the public market-place 
of the city, disdainfully silent, or breathing only 
in melancholy accents a prayer for his native 
forest, a longing to be free.” 

Magnificent ! ” cried the Baron. ‘‘I al¬ 
ways experience something of the same feeling, 
when I walk through a conservatory. The lux¬ 
uriant plants of the tropics — those illustrious 




106 


HYPERION 


I 


exotics, with their gorgeous flamingo-colored 
blossoms, and great flapping leaves, like ele¬ 
phants’ ears — have a singular working upon 
my imagination, and remind me of a menagerie 
and wild beasts kept in cages. But your illus¬ 
tration is finer; — indeed, a grand figure. Put 
it down for an epic poem.” 


A ROMANCE. 


107 


CHAPTER IV. 

A BEER-SCANDAL. 

On their way homeward, Flemming and the 
Baron passed through a narrow lane, in which 
was a well-known Studenten-Kneipe. At the 
door stood a young man, whom the Baron at 
once recognized as his friend Von Kleist. He 
was a student; and universally acknowledged, 
among his young acquaintance, as a “ devilish 
handsome fellow ” ; notwithstanding a tremen¬ 
dous scar on his cheek, and a cream-colored 
mustache, as soft as the silk of Indian corn. In 
short, he was a renowner, and a duellist. 

“ What are you doing here. Von Kleist ? ” 
Ah, my dear Baron ! Is it you ? Come 
in ; come in. You shall see some sport. A 
Fox-Commerce is on foot, and a regular Beer- 
Scandal.” 

‘‘ Shall we go in, Flemming ? ” 


108 


HYPERION 


“ Certainly. I should like to see how these 
things are managed in Heidelberg. You are a 
baron, and I am a stranger. It is of no conse¬ 
quence what you and I do, as the king’s fool An- 
geli said to the poet Bautru, urging him to put on 
his hat at the royal dinner-table.” 

William Lilly, the Astrologer, says, in his 
Autobiography, that, when he was committed 
to the guard-room in Whitehall, he thought 
himself in hell; for “some were sleeping, others 
swearing, others smoking tobacco ; and in the 
chimney of the room there were two bushels 
of broken tobacco-pipes, and almost half a load 
of ashes.” What he would have thought, if he 
had peeped into this Heidelberg Studenten- 
Kneipe, I know not. He certainly would not 
have thought himself in heaven ; unless it were 
a Scandinavian heaven. The windows were 
open ; and yet so dense was the atmosphere with 
the smoke of tobacco and the fumes of beer, that 
the tallow candles burned but dimly. A crowd 
of students were sitting at three long tables, in 
the large hall; a medley of fellows, known at 
German Universities under the cant names of 
Old-Ones, Mossy-Heads, Princes of Twilight, 
and Pomatum-Stallions. They were smoking. 


A ROMANCE. 


109 


drinking, singing, screaming, and discussing the 
great Laws of the Broad-Stone and the Gutter. 
They had a great deal to say, likewise, about 
Besens, and Zobels, and Poussades ; and, if they 
had been charged for the noise they made, as 
travellers used to be, in the old Dutch taverns, 
they would have had a longer bill to pay for that 
than for their beer. 

In a large arm-chair,' upon the middle table, 
sat one of those distinguished individuals known 
among German students as a Senior, or Leader 
of a Landsmannschaft. He was booted and 
spurred, and wore a very small crimson cap, 
and a very tight blue jacket, and very long hair, 
and a very dirty shirt. He was President of 
the night; and, as Flemming entered the hall 
with the Baron and his friend, striking upon the 
table with a mighty broadsword, he cried in a 
loud voice: — 

“ Silentium ! ” 

At the same moment, a door at the end of the 
hall was thrown open, and a procession of new¬ 
comers, or Nasty-Foxes, as they are called in the 
college dialect, entered two by two, looking 
wild, and green, and foolish. As they came 
forward, they were obliged to pass under a pan 


110 


HYPERION, 


of naked swords, held crosswise by two Old- 
Ones, who, with pieces of burnt cork, made an 
enormous pair of mustaches on the smooth^ 
rosy cheeks of each, as he passed beneath this 
arch of triumph. While the procession was 
entering the hall, the President lifted up his 
voice again, and began to sing the well-known 
Fox-song, in the chorus of which all present 
joined lustily. 


What comes there from the hill ? 

What comes there from the hill ? 

What comes there from the leathery hill ? 
,Sa! Sa! 

Leathery hill! 

What comes there from the hill ? 

It is a postilion ! 

It is a postilion ! 

It is a leathery postilion ! 

Sa! Sa! 

Postilion! 

It is a postilion! 

What brings the postilion ? 

What brings the postilion ? 

What brings the leathery postilion ? 

Sa! Sa ! 

Postilion! 

What brings the postilion 



A ROMANCE 


He bringetli us a Fox ! 

He bringetli us a Fox ! 

He bringetli us a leathery Fox ' 

Sal Sa! 

Leathery Fox! 

He bringetli us a Fox ! 

Your servant, Masters mine ! 

Your servant, Masters mine ! 

Your servant, much-honored Masters mine . 
Sa! Sa! 

Much-honored Masters mine I 
Your servant. Masters mine ! 

How does the Herr Papa ? 

How does the Herr Papa ? 

How does the leathery Herr Papa ? 

Sa! Sa! 

Herr Papa! 

How does the Herr Papa ? 

He reads in Cicero ! 

He reads in Cicero ! 

He reads in leathery Cicero ! 

Sa! Sa! 

Cicero ! 

He reads in Cicero ! 

How does the Frau Mamma? 

How does the Frau Mamma? 

How does the leathery Frau Mamma ^ 

Sa! Sa! 

Frau Mamma! 

How does the Frau Mamma ? 


112 


HYPERION 


She makes the Papa tea ! 

She makes the Papa tea ! 

She makes the Papa leathery tea! 

Sa ! Sa! ^ 

Leathery tea! 

She makes the Papa tea ! 

How does the Mamsell Soeur ? 

How does the Mamsell Soeur? 

How does the leathery Mamsell Soeur ? 

Sa! Sa! 

Mamsell Soeur! 

How does the Mamsell Soeur ? 

She knits the Papa stockings ! > 

She knits the Papa stockings ! 

She knits the Papa leathery stockings! 

Sa! Sa! 

Leathery stockings! 

She knits the Papa stockings ! i 

1 

How does the Herr Rector? ' 

I 

How does the Herr Rector ? , 

How does the leathery Herr Rector ? 

Sa! Sa! ^ 

Herr Rector! ^ 

How does the Herr Rector ? 

He calls the scholar, Boy ! | 

He calls the scholar, Boy ! 

He calls the scholar, leathery Boy ! 


Sa! Sa! 


Leathery Boy ! 



He calls the scholar. Boy ! 


A ROMANCE 


113 


And smokes the Fox tobacco ? 

And smokes the Fox tobacco ? 

And smokes tlie leathery Fox tobacco ^ 
Sa ! Sa! 

Fox tobacco ! 

And smokes the Fox tobacco? 

A little, Masters mine ! 

A little, Masters mine ! 

A little, much-honored Masters mine. 
Sa! Sa' 

Much-honored Masters mine! 

A little. Masters mine! 

Then let him fill a pipe ! 

Then let him fill a pipe ! 

Then let him fill a leathery pipe I 
Sa! Sa! 

Leathery pipe ! 

Then let him fill a pipe ' 

O Lord ! It makes me sick! 

O Lord ! It makes me sick ! 

O Lord! It makes me leathery sick! 

Sa! Sa! 

Leathery sick ! 

O Lord ! It makes me sick! 

Then let him throw it off. 

Then let him throw it off! 

Then let him throw it leathery cilf 
Sa! Sa! 

Leathery off! 

Then let him throw it off! 

8 


114 


HYPERION, 


Now I again am well! 

Now he again is well! 

Now I again am leathery well! 

Sa ! Sa! 

Leathery well! 

Now I again am well! 

So grows the Fox a Bursch 1 
So grows the Fox a Bursch! 

So grows the leathery Fox a Burscn. 
Sa! Sa! 

Fox a Bursch! 

So grows the Fox a Bursch ! 


At length the song was finished. Meanwhile 
large tufts and strips of paper had been twisted 
into the hair of the Branders, as those are called 
who have been already one term at the Univer¬ 
sity, and then at a given signal were set on 
fire, and the Branders rode round the table on 
chairs amid roars of laughter. When this cere¬ 
mony was completed, the President rose and 
in a solemn voice pronounced a long discourse, 
in which old college jokes were mingled with 
much parental advice to young men on entering 
life, and the whole was profusely garnished with 
select passages from the Old Testament. Then 
they all seated themselves at the table and the 
heavy beer-drinking set in, as among the Gods 
and Heroes of the old Northern mythology. 


A ROMANCE. 


115 


“ Brander ! Brander ! ’’ screamed a youth 
whose face was hot and flushed with supper and 
with beer ; ‘‘ Brander, I say ! Thou art a Doc¬ 
tor ! No, — a Pope ;—thou art a Pope, by—! ’’ 

These words were addressed to a pale, quiet¬ 
looking person, who sat opposite, and w^as busy 
in making a wretched shaved poodle sit on his 
hind legs in a chair, by his master’s side, and 
hold a short clay pipe in his mouth, — a per¬ 
formance to which the poodle seemed no wise 
inclined. 

“ Thou art challenged ! ” replied the pale stu¬ 
dent, turning from his dog, who dropped the pipe 
from his mouth and leaped under the table. 

Seconds were chosen on the spot ; and the 
arms ordered ; namely, six mighty goblets, or 
Bassglaser, filled to the brim with foaming beer. 
Three were placed before each duellist. 

“ Take your weapons ! ” cried one of the sec¬ 
onds, and each of the combatants seized a goblet 
in his hand. 

‘‘ Strike ! ” 

And the glasses rang, with a salutation like 
the crossing of swords. 

“ Set to ! ” 

Each set the goblet to his lips. 


116 


HYPERION, 


“ Out! 

And each poured the contents down his throat, 
as if he were pouring them through a tunnel into 
a beer-barrel. The other two glasses followed 
in quick succession, hardly a long breath drawn 
between. The pale student was victorious. 
He was first to drain the third goblet. He held 
it for a moment inverted, to let the last drops 
fall out, and then placing it quietly on the table, 
looked his antagonist in the face, and said: — 

“ Hit ! ” 

Then, with the greatest coolness, looking un¬ 
der the table, he whistled for his dog. His antag¬ 
onist stopped midway in his third glass. Every 
vein in his forehead seemed bursting ; his eyes 
were wild and bloodshot, his hand gradually loos 
ened its hold upon the table, and he sank and 
rolled together like a sheet of lead. He was 
drunk. 

At this moment a majestic figure came stalk¬ 
ing down the table, ghost-like, through the dim, 
smoky atmosphere. His coat was off, his neck 
bare, his hair wild, his eyes wide open, and look¬ 
ing straight before him, as if he saw some beckon¬ 
ing hand in the air, that others could not see. 
His left hand was upon his hip, and in his right 


A ROMANCE. 


117 


he held a drawn sword extended, and pointing 
downward. Regardless of every one, erect, 
and with a martial stride, he marched directly 
along the centre of the table, crushing glasses 
and overthrowing bottles at every step. The 
students shrunk back at his approach ; till at 
length one more intoxicated, or more courageous, 
than the rest, dashed a glass full of beer into his 
face. A general tumult ensued, and the student 
with the sword leaped to the floor. It was 
VonKleist. He was renowning it. In the midst 
of the uproar could be distinguished the offensive 
words : — 

‘‘Arrogant! Absurd I Impertinent! Hum¬ 
mer Junge ! ’’ 

Von Kleist went home that night with no less 
than six duels on his hands. He fought them 
all out in as many days ; and came off with only 
a gash through his upper lip and another through 
his right eyelid from a dexterous Suabian Schla- 
ger. 



118 


HYPERION 


CHAPTER V. 

THE WHITE lady’s SLIPPER AND THE PAS' 
SION-FLOWER. 

That night Emma of Ilmenau went to her 
chamber with a heavy heart, and her dusky eyes 
were troubled with tears. She was one of those 
gentle beings who seem created only to love and 
to be loved. A shade of melancholy softened 
her character. She shunned the glare of day¬ 
light and of society, and wished to he alone. 
Like the evening primrose, her heart opened 
only after sunset; but bloomed through the dark 
night with sweet fragrance. Her mother, on the 
contrary, flaunted in the gairish light of society. 
There was no sympathy between them. Their 
souls never approached, never understood each 
other, and words w^ere often spoken which wound¬ 
ed deeply. And therefore Emma of Ilmenau 
went to her chamber that night with tears in her 
eyes. 


A ROMANCE. 


119 


She was followed by her French chamber¬ 
maid, Madeleine, a native of Strasburg, who 
had grown old in the family. In her youth, she 
had been poor, — and virtuous, because she had 
never been tempted ; and now that she had 
grown old, and seen no immediate reward for 
her virtue, as is usual with weak minds, she de¬ 
spaired of Providence, and regretted she had 
never been tempted. Whilst this unfortunate 
personage was lighting the wax tapers on the 
toilet, and drawing the bed-curtains, and tattling 
about the room, Emma threw herself into an 
arm-chair, and, crossing her hands in her lap, 
and letting her head fall upon her bosom, seemed 
lost in a dream. 

“ Why have these gentle feelings been given 
me ” said she in her heart. “Why have I 
been born with all these warm affections, these 
ardent longings after what is good, if they lead 
only to sorrow and disappointment } I would 
love some one, — love him once and for ever; — 
devote myself to him alone, — live for him,— 
die for him, — exist alone in him ! But, alas ! 
in all this wide world there is none to love me, 
as I would be loved, — none whom I may love, 
as I am capable of loving. How empty, how 


120 


HYPERION, 


desolate, seems the world about me ! Why has 
Heaven given me these affections, only to fall 
and fade ? ’’ 

Alas ! poor child ! thou, too, must learn, like 
others, that the sublime mystery of Providence 
goes on in silence, and gives no explanation 
of itself, — no answer to our impatient ques¬ 
tionings ! 

Bless me, child, what ails you ? ” exclaimed 
Madeleine, perceiving that Emma paid no at¬ 
tention to her idle gossip. ‘‘ When I was of your 


“ Do not talk to me now, good Madeleine. 
Leave me, I wish to be alone.’’ 

‘‘ Well, here is something,” continued the 
maid, taking a billet from her bosom, ‘‘ which 
I hope will enliven you. When I was of your 
age-” 

“Hush! hush!” said Emma, taking the billet 
from the hard hand of Madeleine. “ Once more 
I beg you, leave me. I wish to be alone.” 

Madeleine took the lamp and retired slowly, 
wishing her young mistress many good nights and 
rosy dreams. Emma broke the seal of the note. 
As she read, her face became deadly pale, and 
then, as quick as thought, a crimson blush gleam- 




A ROMANCE. 


121 


ed on her cheek, and her hands trembled. Ten¬ 
derness, pity, love, offended pride, the weak¬ 
ness and dignity of woman, were all mingled 
in her look, changing and passing over her fine 
countenance like cloud-shadows. She sunk 
back in her chair, covering her face with her 
hands, as if she would hide it from herself and 
Heaven. 

“ He loves me ! ” said she to herself; “ loves 
me ; and is married to another, whom he loves 
not ! and dares to tell me this ! O, never,— 
never,—never! And yet he is so friendless 
and alone in this unsympathizing world, — and an 
exile, and homeless I I can but pity him ; — 
yet I hate him, and will see him no more ! ” 

This short reverie of love and hate was broken 
by the sound of a clear, mellow voice, which, in 
the universal stillness of the hour, seemed almost 
like the voice of a spirit. It was a voice, with¬ 
out the accompaniment of any instrument, sing¬ 
ing those sweet lines of Goethe : — 

“Under the tree-tops is quiet now! 

In all the woodlands hearest thou 
Not a sound! 

The little birds are asleep in the trees; 

Wait! wait! and soon, like these, 

Sleepest thou ! 


122 


HYPERION, 


Emma knew the voice, and started. She rush¬ 
ed to the window to close it. It was a beautiful 
night, and the stars were shining peacefully over 
the mountain of All-Saints. The sound of the 
Neckar w’as soft and low ; nightingales were sing¬ 
ing among the brown shadows of the woods ; the 
large red moon shone, like a ruby, in the hori¬ 
zon’s ample ring ; and golden threads of light 
seemed braided together with the rippling current 
of the river. Tall and spectral stood the white 
statues on the bridge. The outlines of the hills, 
the castle, the arches of the bridge, and the spires 
and roofs of the town were as strongly marked 
as if cut out of pasteboard. Amid this fairy 
scene, a little boat was floating silently down the 
stream. Emma closed the window hastily, and 
drew the curtains close. 

“ I hate him ; and yet T will pray for him,” 
said she, as she laid her weary head upon that 
pillow, from which, but a few months before, 
she thought she should never raise it again. “ O, 
that I had died then ! I dare not love him, but I 
will pray for him ! ” 

Sweet child ! If the face of the deceiver comes 
30 often between thee and Heaven, I tremble for 
thy fate ! The plant that sprang from Helen’s 


A ROMANCE. 


123 


tears destroyed serpents ; ■— would that from thine 
might spring up heart’s-ease, — some plant, at 
least, to destroy the serpents in thy bosom! Be¬ 
lieve me, upon the margin of celestial streams 
alone those simples grow which cure the heart¬ 
ache ! 

And this the silent stars beheld, looking down 
from heaven, and told it not again. This, like¬ 
wise, the Frau Himmelauen beheld, looking from 
her chamber-window, and was not so discreet as 
the silent stars. 



124 


HYPERION, 


CHAPTER VI. 

GLIMPSES INTO CLOUD-LAND. 

“ There are many things, which, having no 
corporeal evidence, can be perceived and com¬ 
prehended only by the discursive energies of rea¬ 
son. Hence the ambiguous nature of matter can 
be comprehended only by adulterated opinion. 
Matter is the principle of all bodies, and is stamp¬ 
ed with the impression of forms. Fire, air, and 
water derive their origin and principle from the 
scalene triangle. But the earth was created from 
right-angled triangles, of which two of the sides 
are equal. The sphere and the pyramid contain 
in themselves the figure of fire ; but the octae- 
dron was destined to be the figure of air, and the 
icosaedron of water. The right-angled isosceles 
triangle produces from itself a square, and the 
square generates from itself the cube, which is the 
figure peculiar to earth. But the figure of a beau- 


A ROMANCE. 


J25 


tiful and perfect sphere was imparted to the most 
beautiful and perfect world, that it might be indi’ 
gent of nothing, but contain all things, embracing 
and comprehending them in itself, and thus might 
be excellent and admirable, similar to and in con¬ 
cord with itself, ever moving musically and me¬ 
lodiously. If I use a novel language, excuse me. 
As Apuleius says, pardon must be granted to 
novelty of words, when it serves to illustrate the 
obscurity of things.” 

These words came from the lips of the lion¬ 
like philosopher who has been noticed before 
m these pages. He was sitting with Flemming, 
smoking a long pipe. As the Baron said, he 
was indeed a strange owl ; for the owl is a grave 
bird ; a monk, who chants midnight mass in the 
great temple of Nature ; — an anchorite, — a 
pillar saint, — the very Simeon Stylites of his 
neighbourhood. Such, likewise, was the philo¬ 
sophical Professor. Solitary, but with a mighty 
current, flowed the river of his life, like the Nile, 
without a tributary stream, and making fertile 
j only a single strip in the vast desert. His tem- 
I perament had been in youth a joyous one ; and 
j now, amid all his sorrows and privations, — for 
I he had many, — he looked upon the world as a 



S26 


HYPERION, 


glad, bright, glorious world. On the many joys of 
life he gazed still with the eyes of childhood, from 
the far-gone Past upward, trusting, hoping ; — 
and upon its sorrows with the eyes of age, from 
the distant Future, downward, triumphant, not 
despairing. He loved solitude, and silence, and 
•candle-light, and the deep midnight. “For,” 
said he, “ if the morning hours are the wings 
of the day, I only fold them about me to sleep 
more sweetly; knowing, that, at its other extrem¬ 
ity, the day, like the fowls of the air, has an 
epicurean morsel, — a parson’s nose ; and on 
this oily midnight my spirit revels and is glad.” 

Such was the Professor, wdio had been talking 
in a half-intelligible strain for two hours or more 
The Baron had fallen fast asleep in his chair ; 
but Flemming sat listening with excited imagina¬ 
tion, and the Professor continued in the following 
words, which, to the best of his listener’s mem¬ 
ory, seemed gleaned here and there from Fich¬ 
te’s Destiny of Man, and Schubert’s History of 
the Soul. 

‘‘Life is one and universal ; its forms many 
and individual. Throughout this beautiful and 
wonderful creation there is never-ceasing motion, 
without rest by night or day, ever weaving to and 


A ROMANCE. 


127 


fro. Swifter than a weaver’s shuttle it flies from 
Birth to Death, from Death to Birth ; from the 
beginning seeks the end, and finds it not, for the 
seeming end is only a dim beginning of a new 
out-going and endeavour after the end. As the 
ice upon the mountain, when the warm breath 
of the summer sun breathes upon it, melts, and 
divides into drops, each of which reflects an 
image of the sun ; so life, in the smile of God’s 
love, divides itself into separate forms, each bear¬ 
ing in it and reflecting an image of God’s love. 
Of all these forms the highest and most perfect 
m its God-likeness is the human soul. The vast 
cathedral of Nature is full of holy scriptures, and 
shapes of deep, mysterious meaning ; but all is 
solitary and silent there ; no bending knee, no up¬ 
lifted eye, no lip adoring, praying. Into this vast 
cathedral comes the human soul, seeking its Cre¬ 
ator ; and the universal silence is changed to 
sound, and the sound is harmonious, and has a 
meaning, and is comprehended and felt. It was 
an ancient saying of the Persians, that the waters 
rush from the mountains and hurry forth into all 
the lands to find the Lord of the Earth ; and the 
flame of the fire,* when it awakes, gazes no more 
upon the ground, but mounts heavenward to seek 


128 


HYPERION, 


the Lord of Heaven ; and here and there the 
Earth has built the great watch-towers of the 
mountains, and they lift their heads far up into 
the sky, and gaze ever upward and around, to see 
if the Judge of the World comes not ! Thus in 
Nature herself, without man, there lies a waiting 
and hoping, a looking and yearning, after an un¬ 
known somewhat. Yes ; when, above there, 
where the mountain lifts its head over all others, 
thatdt may be alone with the clouds and storms 
of heaven, the lonely eagle looks forth into the 
gray dawn, to see if the day comes not; when, 
by the mountain torrent, the brooding raven lis¬ 
tens to hear if the chamois is returning from his 
nightly pasture in the valley ; and when the soon 
uprising sun calls out the spicy odors of the 
thousand flowers, the Alpine flowers, with heav¬ 
en’s deep blue and the blush of sunset on their 
leaves; — then there awake in Nature, and the 
soul of man can see and comprehend them, an 
expectation and a longing for a future revelation 
of God’s majesty. They awake, also, when, in 
the fulness of life, field and forest rest at noon, 
and through the stillness are heard only the song 
of the grasshopper and the hum of the bee ; and 
when at evening the singing lark up from the 


A ROMANCE. 


129 


sweet-smelling vineyards rises, or in the later 
hours of night Orion puts on his shining armor, 
to walk forth into the fields of heaven. But in the 
soul of man alone is this longing changed to cer¬ 
tainty, and fulfilled. For, lo ! the light of the sun 
and the stars shines through the air, and is no¬ 
where visible and seen ; the planets hasten with 
more than the speed of the storm through infinite 
space, and their footsteps are not heard; but 
where the sunlight strikes the firm surface of the 
planets, where the storm-wind smites the wall 
of the mountain cliff, there is the one seen and 
the other heard. Thus is the glory of God 
made visible, and may be seen, where in the 
soul of man it meets its likeness changeless and 
firm-standing. Thus, then, stands Man ; — a 
mountain on the boundary between two worlds ; 
— its foot in one, its summit far-rising into the 
other. From this summit the manifold landscape 
of life is visible, the way of the Past and Per¬ 
ishable, which we have left behind us ; and as 
we evermore ascend, bright glimpses of the day¬ 
break of Eternity beyond us ! 

Flemming would fain have interrupted this dis¬ 
course at times, to answer and inquire; but the 
Professor went on, warming and glowing more 
9 


130 


HYPERION, 


and more. At length, there was a short pause, 
and Flemming said : — 

“ All these indefinite longings, these yearn 
ings after an unknown somewhat, I have felt 
and still feel within me ; but not yet their fulfil- 
.ment.” 

“ That is because you have not faith,” an¬ 
swered the Professor. “ The Present is an age 
of doubt, and disbelief, and darkness ; out of 
which shall arise a clear and bright Hereafter 
In the second part of Goethe’s Faust, there is 
a grand and striking scene, where in the classical 
Walpurgis Night, on the Pharsalian Plains, the 
mocking Mephistopheles sits down between the 
solemn antique Sphinxes, and boldly questions 
them, and reads their riddles. The red light 
of innumerable watch-fires glares round about, 
and shines upon the terrible face of the arch- 
scofFer; while on either side, severe, majestic, 
solemnly serene, we behold the gigantic forms 
of the children of Chimsera, half buried in the 
earth, their mild eyes gazing fixedly, as if they 
heard through the midnight the swift-rushing 
wings of the Stymphalldes, striving to outstrip 
the speed of Alcides’ arrows ! Angry Griffins 
Rre near them ; and not far are Sirens, singing 




A ROMANCE. 


131 


their wondrous songs from the rocking branches 
of the willow-trees ! Even thus does a scoffing 
and unbelieving Present sit down between an 
unknown Future and a too believing Past, and 
question and challenge the gigantic forms of Faith, 
half buried in the sands of Time, and gazing 
forward steadfastly into the night, whilst sounds 
of anger and voices of delight alternate vex and 
soothe the ear of man ! — But the time will 
come, when the soul of man shall return again 
childlike and trustful to its faith in God, and look 
God in the face and die ; for it is an old saying, 
full of deep, mysterious meaning, that he must 
die, who hath looked upon a God. And this is 
the fate of the soul, that it should die continually. 
No sooner here on earth does it awake to its 
peculiar being, than it struggles to behold and 
comprehend the Spirit of Life. In the first dim 
twilight of its existence, it beholds this spirit, 
is pervaded by its energies, — is quick and crea¬ 
tive like the spirit itself, and yet slumbers away 
into death after having seen it. But the image 
it has seen remains; in the eternal procreation, 
as a homogeneal existence, is again renewed ; and 
the seeming death, from moment to moment, 
becomes the source of kind after kind of exist- 


132 


HYPERION 


ences in ever-ascending series. The soul as¬ 
pires ever onward to love and to behold. It sees 
the image more perfect in the brightening twilight 
of the dawn, in the ever higher-rising sun. It 
sleeps again, dying in the clearer vision ; but the 
image seen remains as a permanent kind ; and 
the siumberer awakes anew and ever higher after 
its own image, till at length, in the full blaze of 
noonday, a being comes forth, which, like the 
eagle, can behold the sun and die not. Then 
both live on, even when this bodily element, the 
mist and vapor through which the young eagle 
gazed, dissolves and falls to earth.’’ 

‘‘ I am not sure that I understand you,” said 
Flemming ; “ but if I do, you mean to say, that, 
as the body continually changes and takes unto 
itself new properties, and is not the same to-day 
as yesterday, so likewise the soul lays aside 
its idiosyncrasies, and is changed by acquiring 
new powers, and thus may be said to die. And 
hence, properly speaking, the soul lives always 
in the Present, and has, and can have, no Fu¬ 
ture ; for the Future becomes the Present, 
and the soul that then lives in me is a higher 
and more perfect soul; and so onward for ever- 


more. 


A ROMANCE. 


133 


I mean what I say,’’ continued the Profes¬ 
sor ; “ and can find no more appropriate lan¬ 
guage to express my meaning than that which I 
have used. But, as I said before, pardon must 
be granted to the novelty of words, when it 
serves to illustrate the obscurity of things. And 
I think you will see clearly from what I have 
said, that this earthly life, when seen hereafter 
from heaven, will seem like an hour passed long 
ago, and dimly remembered ; — that long, labo¬ 
rious, full of joys and sorrows as it is, it will 
then have dwindled down to a mere point, hardly 
visible to the far-reaching ken of the disembodied 
spirit. But the spirit itself soars onward. And 
thus death is neither an end nor a beginning. It 
is a transition, not from one existenc'e to another, 
but from one state of existence to another. No 
link is broken in the chain of being ; any more 
than in passing from infancy to manhood, from 
manhood to old age. There are seasons of rev¬ 
erie and deep abstraction, which seem to me anal¬ 
ogous to death. The soul gradually loses its con¬ 
sciousness of what is passing around it; and takes 
no longer cognizance of objects which are near. 
It seems for the moment to have dissolved its 
connection with the body. It has passed, as it 


134 


HYPERION 


were, into another state of being. It lives in 
another world. It has flown over lands and 
seas ; and holds communion with those it loves, 
in distant regions of the earth, and the more 
distant heaven. It sees familiar faces, and hears 
beloved voices, which to the bodily senses are 
no longer visible and audible. And this like¬ 
wise is death ; save that, when we die, the soul 
returns no more to the dwelling it has left.” 

“ You seem to take it for granted,” interrupt¬ 
ed Flemming, “ that, in our reveries, the soul 
really goes out of the body into distant places, 
instead of summoning up their semblance wdth- 
in itself by the powder of memory and imagina¬ 
tion.” 

Something I must take for granted,” replied 
the Professor. ‘‘We will not discuss that point 
now. I speak not without forethought. Just 
observe what a glorious thing human life is, when 
seen in this light ; and how glorious man’s des¬ 
tiny. I am ; thou art; he is ! seems but a school¬ 
boy’s conjugation. But therein lies a mysterious 
meaning. We behold all round about us one 
vast union, in which no man can labor for himself, 
without laboring at the same time for all others ; 
a glimpse of truth, which, by the universal har- 


A ROMANCE. 


135 


mony of things, becomes an inward benediction, 
and lifts the soul mightily upward. Still more 
so, when a man regards himself as a necessary 
member of this union. The feeling of our dig¬ 
nity and our power grows strong, when we say 
to ourselves : ‘ My being is not objectless and 
in vain ; I am a necessary link in the great 
chain, which, from the full development of con¬ 
sciousness in the first man, reaches forward into 
eternity. All the great, and wise, and good 
among mankind, all the benefactors of the human 
race, whose names I read in the world’s history, 
and the still greater number of those whose 
good deeds have outlived their names, — all those 
have labored for me. I have entered into their 
harvest. I walk the green earth which they 
inhabited. I tread in their footsteps, from which 
blessings grow. I can undertake the sublime 
task which they once undertook, the task of 
making our common brotherhood wiser and hap¬ 
pier. I can build forw^ard, where they were 
forced to leave off; and bring nearer to perfec¬ 
tion the great edifice which they left uncomplet¬ 
ed. And at length I, too, must leave it, and 
go hence. O, this is the sublimest thought of 
all! I can never finish the noble task ; there- 


136 


HYPERION 


fore, so sure as this task is my destiny, I can 
never cease to work, and consequently never 
cease to be. What men call death cannot break 
off this task, which is never-ending; consequent¬ 
ly no period is set to my being, and I am eternal. 
I lift my head boldly to the threatening moun¬ 
tain-peaks, and to the roaring cataract, and to 
the storm-clouds swimming in the fire-sea over¬ 
head, and say, — I am eternal, and defy your 
power ! Break, break over me ! and thou Earth, 
and thou Heaven, mingle in the wild tumult! 
and ye Elements, foam and rage, and destroy this 
atom of dust, — this body, which I call mine ! 
My will alone, with its fixed purpose, shall hover 
brave and triumphant over the ruins of the uni¬ 
verse ; for I have comprehended my destiny ; 
and it is more durable than ye ! It is eternal; 
and I, who recognize it, I likewise am eter¬ 
nal ! ’ Tell me, my friend, have you no faith in 
this ^ ” 

“ I have,” answered Flemming, and there 
was another pause. He then said : — 

“ I have listened to you patiently and without 
interruption. Now listen to me. You complain 
of the skepticism of the age. This is one form 
in which the philosophic spirit of the age presents 


A ROMANCE. 


137 


Itself. Let me tell you, that another form, which 
it assumes, is that of poetic reverie. Plato of 
old had dreams like these ; and the Mystics of 
the Middle Ages ; and still their disciples walk 
in the cloud-land and dream-land of this poetic 
philosophy. Pleasant and cool upon their souls 
lie the shadpws of the trees under which Plato 
taught. From their whispering leaves comes 
wafted across the noise of populous centuries a 
solemn and mysterious sound, which to them is 
the voice of the Soul of the World. All nature 
has become spiritualized and transfigured ; and, 
wrapped in beautiful, vague dreams of the real and 
the ideal, they live in this green world, like the 
little child in the German tale, who sits by the 
margin of a woodland lake, and hears the blue 
heaven and the branches overhead dispute with 
their reflection in the water, which is the reality 
and which the image. I willingly confess that 
such day-dreams as these appeal strongly to my 
imagination. Visitants and attendants are they 
of those lofty souls, which, soaring ever higher 
and higher, build themselves nests under the 
very eaves of the stars, forgetful that they cannot 
live on air, but must descend to earth for food. 
Yet I recognize them as day-dreams only ; as 


138 


HYPERION, 


shadows, not substantial things. What I mainly 
dislike in the New Philosophy is the cool imper¬ 
tinence with which an old idea, folded in a new 
garment, looks you in the face and pretends not 
to know you, though you have been familiar 
friends from childhood. I remember an English 
author, who, in speaking of your German phi¬ 
losophies, says very wisely : ‘ Often, a proposi¬ 
tion of inscrutable and dread aspect, wlren reso¬ 
lutely grappled with, and torn from its shady den, 
and its bristling intrenchments of uncouth ter¬ 
minology, and dragged forth into the open light 
of day, tb be seen by the natural eye and tried 
by merely human understanding, proves to be 
a very harmless truth, familiar to us from old, 
sometimes so familiar as to be a truism. Too 
frequently the anxious novice is reminded of 
Dryden in the Battle of the Books ; there is a 
helmet of rusty iron, dark, grim, gigantic; and 
within it, at the. farthest corner, is a head no big¬ 
ger than a walnut.’—Can you believe that 
these words ever came from the pen of Thomas 
Carlyle ^ He has himself taken up the uncouth 
terminology, of late ; and many pure, simple minds 
are much offended at it. They seem to take it as 
a personal insult. They are angry, and deny the 


A ROMANCE. 


139 


just meed of praise. Tt is, however, hardly 
worth while to lose our presence of mind. Let 
us rather profit as we may, even from this spec¬ 
tacle, and recognize the monarch in his mas¬ 
querade. For, hooded and wrapped about with 
that strange and antique garb, there walks a 
kingly, a most royal soul, even as the Emperor 
Charles walked amid solemn cloisters under a 
monk’s cowl, — a monarch still in soul. Such 
things are not new in the history of the world. 
Ever and anon they sweep over the earth, and 
blow themselves out soon; and then there is quiet 
for a season, and the atmosphere of Truth seems 
more serene. Why would you preach to the 
wind ^ Why reason with thunder-showers } 
Better sit quiet, and see them pass over like a 
pageant, cloudy, superb, and vast.” 

The Professor smiled self-complacently, but 
said not a word. Flemming continued : — 

‘ ‘ I will add no more than this ; — there are 
many speculations in literature, philosophy, and 
religion, which, though pleasant to walk in, and 
lying under the shadow of great names, yet lead 
to no important result. They resemble rather 
those roads in the Western forests of my native 
land, which, though broad and pleasant at first, 


140 


HYPERION, 


and lying beneath the shadow of great branches, 
finally dwindle to a squirrel track, and run up a 
tree ! ” 

The Professor hardly knew whether he should 
laugh or be offended at this sally; and, lay¬ 
ing his hand upon Flemming’s arm, he said se¬ 
riously : — 

“Believe me, my y/)ung friend, the time will 
come, when you will think more wisely on these 
things. And with you, I trust, that time will 
soon come ; since it moves more speedily with 
some than with others. For what is Time } 
The shadow on the dial, — the striking of the 
clock, — the running of the sand, — day and 
night, — summer and winter, — months, years, 
centuries ; — these are but arbitrary and outward 
signs, — the measure of Time, not Time itself. 
Time is the Life of the Soul. If not this, then 
tell me, what is Time ? ” 

The high and animated tone of voice in which 
the Professor uttered these words aroused the 
Baron from his sleep ; and, not distinctly com¬ 
prehending what was said, but thinking the Pro¬ 
fessor asked what time it was, he innocently ex¬ 
claimed : — 

“ T should think it must be near midnight ! ” 


A ROMANCE. 


141 


This somewhat disconcerted the Professor, 
who took his leave soon afterward. When he 
was gone, the Baron said : — 

‘‘ Excuse me for treating your guest so cava¬ 
lierly. His philosophy annoyed me not a little ; 
and I look refuge in sleep. One would think, to 
judge by the language of this sect, that they alone 
saw any beauty in Naturo; and, when I hear one 
of them discourse, I am instantly reminded of 
Goethe’s Baccalaureus, when he exclaims : ‘ The 
world was not, before I created it; I brought the 
sun up out of the sea; with me began the changeful 
course of the moon; the day decked itself on my 
account; the earth grew green and blossomed to 
meet me ; at my nod, in that first night, the pomp 
of all the stars developed itself; who but I set 
you free from all the bonds of Philister-like, con¬ 
tracting thoughts } I, however, emancipated as 
my mind assures me I am, gladly pursue my in¬ 
ward light, advance boldly in a transport pecu 
liarly my own, the bright before me, and the dark 
behind ! ’ — Do you not see a resemblance } 
O, they might be modest enough to confess, that 
one straggling ray of light may, by some acci¬ 
dent, reach the blind eyes of even us poor, be¬ 
nighted heathens ! ” 


142 


HYPERION,- 


‘‘ Alas ! how little veneration we have ! ” said 
Flemming. I could not help closing the dis¬ 
cussion with a jest. An ill-timed levity often 
takes me by surprise. On all such occasions, I 
think of a scene at the University, where, in the 
midst of a grave discussion on the possibility of 
Absolute Motion, a scholar said he had seen a 
rock split open, from which sprang a toad, who 
could not be supposed to have any knowledge 
of the external world, and consequently his mo¬ 
tion must have been absolute. The learned 
Professor, who presided on that occasion, was 
hardly more startled and astonished than was our 
learned Professor, five minutes ago. But come ; 
wind up your watch, and let us go to bed.” 

“ By the way,” said the Baron, “ did you 
mind what a curious head he has } There are 
two crowns upon it.” 

“ That is a sign,” replied Flemming, “that he 
will eat his bread in two kingdoms.” 

“ T think the poor man would be very thank¬ 
ful,” said the Baron, with a smile, “if he were 
always sure of eating it in one. He is what 
the Transcendentalists call a God-intoxicated 
man ; and I advise him, as Santeul advised 
Bossuet, to go to Patmos and write a new Apoc- 


A ROMANCE. 


143 


CHAPTER VII. 

MILL-WHEELS AND OTHER WHEELS. 

A FEW days after this, the Baron received 
letters from his sister, telling him that her phy¬ 
sicians had prescribed a few weeks at the Baths 
of Ems, and urging him to meet her there before 
the fashionable season. 

“ Come,” said he to Flemming ; ‘‘ make this 
short journey with me. We will pass a few 
pleasant days at Ems, and visit the other water¬ 
ing-places of Nassau. It will drive away the 
melancholy day-dreams that haunt you. Perhaps 
some future bride is even now waiting for you, 
with dim presentiments and undefined longings, at 
the Serpent’s Bath.” 

‘‘ Or some widow of Ems, with a cork-leg ! ” 
said Flemming, smiling; and then added, in a tone 
of voice half jest, half earnest, ‘‘ Certainly ; let 
us go in pursuit of her : — 


144 


HYPERION 


‘ Whoe’er she be, 

That not impossible she, 

That shall command my heart and me; 

‘ Where’er she lie. 

Hidden from mortal eye. 

In shady leaves of destiny. ’ ” 

They started in the afternoon for Frankfort, 
pursuing their way slowly along the lovely Berg- 
strasse, famed throughout Germany for its beauty. 
They passed the ruined house where Martin Lu¬ 
ther lay concealed after the Diet of Worms, and 
through the village of Handschuhsheimer, as old 
as the days of King. Pepin the Short, — a ham¬ 
let, lying under the hills, half-buried in blossoms 
and green leaves. Close on the right rose the 
mountains of the mysterious Odenwald ; and on 
the left lay the Neckar, like a steel bow in the 
meadow. Farther westward, a thin, smoky va 
por betrayed the course of the Rhine ; beyond 
which, like a troubled sea, ran the blue, billowy 
Alsatian hills. Song of birds, and sound of eve¬ 
ning bells, and fragrance of sweet blossoms filled 
the air ; and silent and slow sank the broad red 
sun, half-hidden amid folding clouds. 

“We shall not pass the night at Weinheim,” 
said the Baron to the postilion, who had dis- 


A ROMANCE. 


145 


mounted to walk up the hill leading to the town. 
‘‘You may drive to the mill in the valley of 
Birkenau.” 

The postilion seized one of his fat horses by 
the tail, and swung himself up to his seat again. 
They rattled over the paved streets of Weinheim, 
and took no heed of the host of the Golden 
Eagle, who stood so invitingly at the door of 
his own inn ; and the ruins of Burg Windeck, 
above there, on its mountain throne, frowned 
at them for hurrying by, without staying to do 
him homage. 

“ The old ruin looks well from the valley,’’ 
said the Baron ; “ but let us beware of climb¬ 
ing that steep hill. Most travellers are like 
children ; they must needs touch whatever they 
behold. They climb up to every old broken 
tooth of a castle which they find on their way ; 
— get a toilsome ascent and hot sunshine for 
their pains, and come down wearied and disap¬ 
pointed. I trust we are wiser.” 

They crossed the bridge, and turned up the 
stream, passing under an arch of stone, which 
serves as a gateway to this enchanted valley 
of Birkenau. A cool and lovely valley, shut 
in by high hills ; — shaded by alder-trees and tall 
10 


146 


HYPERION, 


poplars, under which rushes the Wechsnitz, a 
noisy mountain-brook, that ever and anon puts 
its broad shoulder to the wheel of a mill, and 
shows that it can labor as well as laugh. At one 
of these mills they stopped for the night. 

A mill forms as characteristic a feature m the 
romantic German landscape as in the romantic 
German tale. It is not only a mill, but likewise 
an alehouse and rural inn ; so that the associa¬ 
tions it suggests are not of labor only, but also 
of pleasure. It stands in the narrow defile, with 
its picturesque thatched roof; thither throng 
the peasants, of a holyday ; and there are rustic 
dances under the trees. 

In the twilight of the fast-approaching summer 
night, the Baron and Flemming walked forth 
along the borders of the stream. As they heard 
it rushing and gushing among the stones and tan¬ 
gled roots, and the great wheel turning in the cur¬ 
rent, with its never-ceasing plash ! plash ! it 
brought to their minds that exquisite, simple song 
of Goethe, the Youth and the Mill-brook. It 
was for the moment a nymph, which sang to them 
in the voice of the waters. 

“ I am persuaded,” said Flemming, ‘‘ that, 
in order fully to understand and feel the popu- 


A ROMANCE. 


147 


lar poetry of Germany, one must be familiar 
with the German landscape. Many sweet little 
poems are the outbreaks of momentary feelings ; 
—words, to which the song of birds, the rustling 
of leaves, and the gurgle of cool waters form 
the appropriate music. Or perhaps I should 
say they are words which man has composed to 
the music of nature. Can you not, even now, 
hear this brooklet telling you how it is on its way 
to the mill, where at daybreak the miller’s daugh¬ 
ter opens her window, and comes down to bathe 
her face in its stream, and her bosom is so full 
and white, that it kindles the glow of love in the 
cool waters ? ” 

‘‘ A most delightful ballad, truly,” said the 
Baron. “ But, like many others of our little 
songs, it requires a poet to feel and understand 
it. Sing them in the valley and woodland shad¬ 
ows, and under the leafy roofs of garden walks, 
and at night, and alone, as they were written. 
Sing them not in the loud world, — for the loud 
world laughs such things to scorn. It is Muller 
who says, in that little song, where the maiden 
bids the moon good evening : — 

* This song was made to be sung at night, 

And he who reads it in broad daylight 


148 HYPERION, 

Will never read the mystery right; 

And yet it is childlike easy ! * 

He has written a great many pretty songs, in 
which the momentary, indefinite longings and 
impulses of the soul of man find an expression. 
He calls them the Songs of a Wandering Horn- 
player. There is one among them much to our 
present purpose. He expresses in it the feeling 
of unrest and desire of motion, which the sight 
and sound of running waters often produce in us. 
It is entitled, ‘ Whither ? ’ and is worth repeating 
to you.^ 

‘ I heard a brooklet gushing 
From its rocky fountain near, 

Down into the valley rushing, 

So fresh and wondrous clear. 

‘ 1 know not what came o’er me. 

Nor who the counsel gave; 

But I must hasten downw'ard. 

All with my pilgrim-stave. 

‘ Downward, and ever farther. 

And ever the brook beside; 

And ever fresher murmured. 

And ever clearer, the tide. 

* Is this the way I was going ? 

Whither, O brooklet ? say t 
Thou hast, with thy soft murmur. 

Murmured my senses away. 


A ROMANCE. 


149 


‘ What do I say of a murmur ? 

That can no murmur be ; 

’T is the water-nymphs, that are singing 
Their roundelays under me. 

‘ Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur 
And wander merrily near; 

The wheels of a mill are going 
In every brooklet clear.’ ” 

“ There you have the poetic reverie,” said 
Flemming, “ and the dull prose commentary and 
explanation in matter of fact. The song is pret¬ 
ty ; and was probably suggested by some such 
scene as this which we are now beholding. 
Doubtless, all your old national traditions sprang 
up in the popular mind as this song in the 
poet’s.” 

‘‘Your opinion is certainly correct,” answered 
the Baron ; “ and yet all this play of poetic fan¬ 
cy does not prevent me from feeling the chill 
night-air and the pangs of hunger. Let us go 
back to the mill, and see what our landlady has 
for supper. Did you observe what a loud, sharp 
voice she has } ” 

“ People always have, who live in mills, and 
near waterfalls.” 

On the following morning, they emerged un¬ 
willingly from the green, dark valley, and jour- 


150 


HYPERION, 


neyed along the level highway to Frankfort, 
where in the evening they heard the glorious Don 
Giovanni of Mozart. Of all operas, this was 
Flemming’s favorite. What rapturous flights 
of sound ! what thrilling, pathetic chimes ! what 
wild, joyous revelry of passion ! what a delirium 
of sense ! what an expression of agony and woe ! 
— all the feelings of suffering and rejoicing 
humanity sympathized with and finding a voice in 
those tones. Flemming and the Baron listened 
with ever-increasing delight. 

How wonderful this is! ” exclaimed Flem¬ 
ming, transported by his feelings. “ How the 
chorus swells and dies, like the wind of sum¬ 
mer ! How those passages of mysterious import 
seem to wave to and fro, like the swaying branch¬ 
es of trees; from which anon some solitary sweet 
voice darts off* like a bird, and floats away and 
revels in the bright, warm sunshine ! And then 
mark ! how, amid the chorus of a hundred voices 
and a hundred instruments, — of flutes, and 
drums, and trumpets, — this universal shout and 
whirlwind of the vexed air, you can so clearly 
distinguish the melancholy vibration of a single 
string, touched by the finger, — a mournful, 
sobbing sound ! Ah, this is indeed human life ! 


A ROMANCE. 


151 


where, in the rushing, noisy crowd, and amid 
sounds of gladness, and a thousand mingling 
emotions, distinctly audible to the ear of thought, 
are the pulsations of some melancholy string of 
the heart, touched by an invisible hand.’’ 

Then came, in the midst of these excited 
feelings, the ballet, drawing its magic net about 
the soul. And soon, from the tangled yet har¬ 
monious mazes of the dance, came forth a sylph¬ 
like form, her scarf floating behind her, as if 
she were fanning tlie air with gauze-like wings. 
Noiseless as a feather or a snow-flake falls, did 
her feet touch the earth. She seemed to float 
in the air, and the floor to bend and wave under 
her, as a branch, when a bird alights upon it and 
takes wing again. Loud and rapturous applause 
followed each wonderful step, each voluptuous 
movement; and, with a flushed cheek and burn- 
ing eye, and bosom panting to be free, stood 
the gracefully majestic figure for a moment still, 
and then the winged feet of the swift dancing-girls 
glanced round her, and she was lost again in 
the throng. 

How truly exquisite this is ! ” exclaimed 
the Baron, after joining loudly in the applause. 

“ "What a noble figure ! What grace ! what 


152 


HYPERION, 


attitudes ! How much soul in every motion ! 
how much expression in every gesture ! I as¬ 
sure you, it produces upon me the same effect 
as a beautiful poem. It is a poem. Every step 
is a word ; and the whole together a poem ! ” 

The Baron and Flemming were delighted 
with the scene ; and at the same time exceed 
ingly amused with the countenance of an old 
prude in the next box, who seemed to look upon 
the whole magic show with such feelings as 
Michal, Saul’s daughter, experienced, when 
she looked from her window and saw King 
David dancing and leaping with his scanty gar¬ 
ments. 

‘‘After all,” said Flemming, “ the old French 
priest was not so far out of the way, when he 
said, in his coarse dialect, ‘ The dance is the 
Devil’s procession; and paint and ornaments, 
the whetting of the Devil’s sword ; and the ring 
that is made in dancing, the Devil’s grindstone, 
whereon he sharpens his sword ; and finally, 
— a ballet is the pomp and mass of the Devil, 
and whosoever entereth therein entereth into 
his pomp and mass ; for the woman who singeth 
is the prioress of the Devil, and they that answer 
are clerks, and they that look on are parishion- 


A ROMANCE. 


153 


ers, and the cymbals and flutes are the bells, and 
the musicians that play are the ministers of the 
Devil.’ ” 

“ No doubt, this good lady near us thinks so 
likewise,” answered the Baron, laughing ; out 
she likes it, for all that.” 

When the play was over, the Baron begged 
Flemming to sit still, till the crowd had gone. 

“ I have a strange fancy,” said he, “ when¬ 
ever I come to the theatre, to see the end of all 
things. When the crowd is gone, and the cur¬ 
tain raised again to air the house, and the lamps 
are all out, save here and there one behind the 
scenes, the contrast with what has gone before 
is most impressive. Every thing wears a dream¬ 
like aspect. The empty boxes and stalls, the 
silence, the smoky twilight, and the magic scene 
dismantled, produce in me a strange, mysterious 
feeling. It is like a dim reflection of a theatre 
in water or in a dusty mirror, and reminds me 
of some of Hoffmann’s wild tales. It is a prac¬ 
tical moral lesson, a commentary on the play, 
and makes the show complete.” 

It was truly as he said ; only tenfold more 
desolate, solemn, and impressive ; and produced 
upon the mind the effect we experience, when 


154 


HYPERION, 


slumber is suddenly broken, and dreams and 
realities mingle, and we know not yet whether 
we sleep or wake. As they at length passed 
out through the dimly lighted passage, they heard 
a vulgar-looking fellow, with a sensual face and 
shaggy whiskers, say to some persons who were 
standing near him, and seemed to he hangers-on 
of the playhouse : — 

‘‘ I shall run her six nights at Munich, and then 
take her on to Vienna.” 

Flemming thought he was speaking of some 
favorite horse. He was speaking of his beauti¬ 
ful wife, the ballet-dancer. 


A ROMANCE. 


155 


CHAPTER VIII. 

GOETHE. 

What most interested our travellers in the 
ancient city of Frankfort was neither the opera 
nor the Ariadne of Dannecker, but the house 
in which Goethe was born, and the scenes he 
frequented in his childhood and remembered in 
fiis old age. Such, for example, are the walks 
around the city, outside the moat; the bridge 
over the Maine, with the golden cock on the 
cross, which the poet beheld and marvelled at 
when a boy; the cloister of the Barefooted 
Friars, through which he stole with mysterious 
awe to sit by the oilcloth-covered table of old 
Rector Albrecht; and the garden in which his 
grandfather walked up and down among fruit- 
trees and rose-bushes, in long morning-gown, 
black velvet cap, and the antique leather gloves, 
which he annually received as Mayor on Pipers- 


156 


HYPERION 


Doomsday, representing a kind of middle per¬ 
sonage between Alcinous and Laertes. Thus, 
O Genius ! are thy foot-prints hallowed ; and 
the star shines for ever over the place of thy na¬ 
tivity. 

“ Your English critics may rail as they list,” 
said the Baron, while he and Flemming were 
returning from a stroll in the leafy gardens out¬ 
side the moat; “ but, after all, Goethe was a 
magnificent old fellow. Only think of his life ; 
his youth of passion, alternately aspiring and 
desponding, stormy, impetuous, headlong ; — 
his romantic manhood, in which passion assumes 
the form of strength ; assiduous, careful, toiling, 
without haste, without rest; — and his sublime 
old age, — the age of serene and classic repose, 
where he stands like Atlas, as Claudian has 
painted him in the Battle of the Giants, holding 
the world aloft upon his head, the ocean-streams 
hard frozen in his hoary locks.” 

‘‘ A good illustration of what the world calls 
his indifferentism.” 

‘‘ And do you know I rather like this indiffer- 
entism ? ^ Did you never have the misfortune to 
live in a community, where a difficulty in the 
parish seemed to announce the end of the world ? 


A ROMANCE. 


157 


or to know one of the benefactors of the human 
race, in the very ‘ storm and pressure period ’ 
of his indiscreet enthusiasm ^ If you have, I 
think you will see something beautiful in the calm 
and dignified attitude which the old philosopher 
assumes.’’ 

“ It is a pity that his admirers had not a little 
of this philosophic coolness. It amuses me to 
read the various epithets which they apply to 
him : — The Dear, dear Man ! The Life-enjoy¬ 
ing Man ! The All-sided One ! The Repre¬ 
sentative of Poetry upon Earth ! The Many- 
sided Master-Mind of Germany ! His enemies 
rush into the other extreme, and hurl at him the 
fierce names of Old Humbug! and Old Heathen ! 
which hit like pistol-bullets.” 

“ I confess, he was no saint.” 

‘‘ No ; his philosophy is the old ethnic phi¬ 
losophy. You will find it all in a convenient and 
concentrated portable form in Horace’s beauti¬ 
ful Ode to Thaliarcus. What I most object to 
in the old gentleman is his sensuality.” 

“ O, nonsense ! Nothing can be purer than the 
Iphigenia ; it is as cold and passionless as a mar¬ 
ble statue.” 

Very true ; but you cannot say the same of 


158 


HYPERION 


some of the Roman Elegies, and of that monstrous 
book, the Elective Affinities.” 

‘‘ Ah, my friend, Goethe is an artist; and 
looks upon all things as objects of art merely. 
Why should he not be allowed to copy in words 
what painters and sculptors copy in colors and in 
marble ? ” 

The artist shows his character in the choice 
of his subject. Goethe never sculptured an 
Apollo, nor painted a Madonna. He gives us 
only sinful Magdalens and rampant Fauns. He 
does not so much idealize as realize.” 

“He only copies nature.” 

“ So did the artists who made the bronze 
lamps of Pompeii. Would you hang one of 
those in your hall ? To say that a man is an 
artist and copies nature is not enough. There 
are two great schools of art; the imitative and the- 
imaginative. The latter is the most noble, and 
the most enduring ; and Goethe belonged rather 
to the former. Have you read Menzel’s attack 
upon him ” 

“ It is truly ferocious. The Silesian hews 
into him lustily. I hope you do not take sides 
with him.” 

“ By no means. He goes too far. He blames 


A ROMANCE. 


159 


the poet for not being a politician. He might as 
well blame him for not being a missionary to the 
Sandwich Islands.” 

“ And what do you think of Eckermann } ” 

“ I think he is a kind of German Boswell. 
Goethe knew he was drawing his portrait, and 
sat for it accordingly. He works very hard to 
make a Saint Peter out of an old Jupiter, as the 
Catholics did at Rome.” 

‘‘ Well, call him Old Humbug, or Old Hea¬ 
then, or what you please ; I maintain, that, with 
all his errors and short-comings, he was a glori¬ 
ous specimen of a man.” 

“ He certainly was. Did it ever occur to you 
that he was in some points like Ben Franklin,— 
a kind of rhymed Ben Franklin } The practical 
tendency of his mind was the same ; his love 
of science was the same ; his benignant, philo¬ 
sophic spirit was the same ; and a vast number 
of his little poetic maxims and soothsayings seem 
nothing more than the worldly wisdom of Poor 
Richard, versified.” 

“ What most offends me is, that now every 
German jackass must have a kick at the dead 
lion.” 

‘‘ And every one who passes through Weimar 


160 


HYPERION. 


must throw a book upon his grave, as travellers 
did of old a stone upon the grave of Manfredi, 
at Benevento. But, of all that has been said or 
sung, what most pleases me is Heine’s Apologet 
ic, if I may so call it; in which he says, that 
the minor poets, who flourished under the im¬ 
perial reign of Goethe, ‘ resemble a young forest, 
where the trees first show their own magnitude 
after the oak of a hundred years, whose branch¬ 
es had towered above and overshadowed them, 
has fallen. There was not wanting an opposi¬ 
tion that strove against Goethe, this majestic 
tree. Men of the most warring opinions united 
themselves for the contest. The adherents of 
the old faith, the orthodox, were vexed that 
in the trunk of the vast tree no niche with its 
holy image was to be found ; nay, that even the 
naked Dryads of paganism were permitted to 
play their witchery there ; and gladly, with con¬ 
secrated axe, would they have imitated the holy 
Boniface, and levelled the enchanted oak to the 
ground. The followers of the new faith, the 
apostles of Liberalism, were vexed, on the other 
hand, that the tree could not serve as a Lib¬ 
erty Tree, or, at any rate, as a barricade. In 
fact, the tree was too high ; no one could plant 


A ROMANCE. 


161 


the red cap upon its summit, or dance the Car¬ 
magnole beneath its branches. The multitude, 
however, venerated this tree for the very reason 
that it reared itself with such independent gran¬ 
deur, and so graciously filled the world with its 
odor, while its branches, streaming magnificently 
toward heaven, made it appear as if the stars 
were only the golden fruit of its wondrous limbs.’ 
Do you not think that beautiful ? ” 

“ Yes, very beautiful. And I am glad to see 
that you can find something to admire in my fa¬ 
vorite author, notwithstanding his frailties ; or, to 
use an old German saying, that you can drive 
the hens out of the garden without trampling 
down the beds.” 

‘‘Here is the old gentleman himself!” ex¬ 
claimed Flemming. 

“ Where ? ” cried the Baron, as if for the 
moment he expected to see the living figure of 
the poet walking before them. 

“ Here at the window, —that full-length cast. 
Excellent, — is it not ? He is dressed, as usual, 
in his long yellow nankeen surtout, with a white 
cravat crossed in front. What a magnificent 
head I and what a posture 1 He stands like a 
11 


162 


HYPERION, 


tower of strength. And, by Heavens ! he was 
nearly eighty years old, when that was made.” 

“ How do you know ^ ” 

“ You can see by the dale on the pedestal.” 

“ You are right. And yet how erect he stands, 
with his square shoulders braced back, and his 
hands behind him ! He looks as if he were 
standing before the fire. I feel tempted to put 
a live coal into his hand, it lies so invitingly half- 
open. Gleim’s description of him, soon after 
he went to Weimar, is very different from this. 
Do you recollect it ” 

‘‘ No, I do not.” 

“It is a story which good old father Gleim 
used to tell with great delight. He was one 
evening reading the Gottingen Musen-Almanach 
in a select society at Weimar, when a young man 
came in, dressed in a short, green shooting-jack¬ 
et, booted and spurred, and having a pair of 
brilliant, black, Italian eyes. He, in turn, offered 
to read ; but finding, probably, the poetry of the 
Musen-Almanach of that year rather too insipid 
for him, he soon began to improvise the wildest 
and most fantastic poems imaginable, and in all 
possible forms and measures, pretending all the 
avhile to read from the book. ‘ That is either 


A ROMANCE. 


163 


Goethe or the Devil,’ said good old father Gleini 
to Wieland, who sat near him. To which the 
‘ Great I of Osmannstadt ’ replied, — ‘ It is both, 
for he has the Devil in him to-night; and at such 
times he is like a wanton colt, that flings out 
before and behind, and you will do well not to go 
too near him ! ’ ” 

“ Very good ! ” 

“ And now that noble figure is but mould. 
Only a few months ago, those majestic eyes 
looked for the last time on the light of a pleasant 
spring morning. Calm, like a god, the old man 
sat ; and with a smile seemed to bid farewell to 
the light of day, on which he had gazed for 
more than eighty years. Books were near him, 
and the pen which had just dropped, as it were, 
from his dying fingers. ‘ Open the shutters, and 
let in more light! ’ were the last words that came 
from those lips. Slowly stretching forth his hand, 
he seemed to write in the air ; and, as it sank 
down again and was motionless, the spirit of the 
old man departed.” 

And yet the world goes on. It is strange 
how soon, when a great man dies, his place is 
filled ; and so completely, that he seems no 
longer wanted. But let us step in here. I wish 
to buy that cast.” 


J64 


HYPERION, 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE DAYLIGHT OF THE DWARFS, AND THE 
FALLING STAR. 

After lingering a day or two in Frankfort, 
the two friends struck across through Hochheim 
to the Rhine, and then up among the hills of the 
Rheingau to Schlangenbad, where they tarried 
only to bathe and to dine, and then pursued 
their way to Langenschwalbach. The town lies 
in a valley, with gently sloping hills around it, 
and long avenues of poplars leading forth into the 
fields. One interminable street cuts the town 
in twain, and there are old houses with curious 
faces carved upon their fronts, and dates of the 
olden time. 

Our travellers soon sallied forth from their 
hotel, impatient to drink the strength-giving wa¬ 
ters of the fountains. They continued their walk 


A ROMANCE. 


165 


lar up the valley under the poplars. The new 
grain was waving in the fields; the birds singing 
in the trees and in the air ; and every thing seem¬ 
ed glad, save a poor old man, who came totter¬ 
ing out of the woods, with a heavy bundle of 
sticks on his shoulders. 

Returning upon their steps, they passed down 
the valley and through the long street to the 
tumble-down old Lutheran church. A flight of 
stone steps leads from the street to the green 
terrace or platform on which the church stands, 
and which, in ancient times, was the church-yard, 
or, as the Germans more devoutly say, God’s- 
acre ; where generations are scattered like seeds, 
and that which is sown in corruption shall he 
raised hereafter in incorruption. On the steps 
stood an old man, — a very old man, — holding 
a little girl by the hand. He took off his greasy 
cap as they passed, and wished them good day. 
His teeth w'ere gone ; he could hardly articulate 
a syllable. The Baron asked him how old the 
church was. He gave no answer ; but when 
the question was repeated, came close up to 
them, and, taking off his cap again, turned his 
ear attentively, and said : — 

“ I am hard of hearing.” 


166 


HYPERION, 


“ Poor old man,” said Flemming; he is as 
much a ruin as the church we are entering. It 
will not be long before he, too, shall be sown as 
seed in this God’s-acre ! ” 

The little girl ran into a house close at hand, 
and brought out the great key. The church-door 
swung open, and, descending a few steps, they 
passed through a low-roofed passage into the 
church. All was in ruin. The gravestones in 
the pavement were started from their places ; 
the vaults beneath yawned ; the roof above was 
falling piecemeal ; there were rents in the old 
tower ; and mysterious passages, and side doors 
with crazy flights of wooden steps, leading down 
into the church-yard. Amid all this ruin, one 
thing only stood erect; it was a statue of a knight 
in armor, standing in a niche under the pulpit. 

“Who is this said Flemming to the old 
sexton ; “ who is tliis, that stands here so sol¬ 
emnly in marble, and seems to be keeping guard 
over the dead men below ? ” 

“ I do not know,” replied the old man ; “ but 
I have heard my grandfather say it was the statue 
of a great warrior ! ” 

“ There is history for you ! ” exclaimed the 
Baron. “ There is fame ! To have a statue of 


A ROMANCE. 


167 


marble, and yet have your name forgotten by the 
sexton of your parish, who can remember only 
that he once heard his grandfather say that you 
were a great warrior ! ” 

Flemming made no reply, for he was thinking 
of the days, when, from that old pulpit, some bold 
reformer thundered down the first tidings of a new 
doctrine, and the roof echoed with the grand old 
hymn of Martin Luther. 

When he communicated his thoughts to the 
Baron, the only answer he received was : — 

“ After all, what is the use of so much preach¬ 
ing ? Do you think the fishes, that heard the ser¬ 
mon of St. Anthony, were any better than those 
who did not ? I commend to your favorable 
notice the fish-sermon of this saint, as recorded 
by Abraham k Sancta Clara. You will find it in 
your favorite Wonder-Horn.’’ 

Thus passed the day at Langenschwalbach ; 
and the evening at the Alice-Saal was quite 
solitary ; for as yet no company had arrived 
to fill its chambers, or, sit under the trees before 
the door. The next morning even Flemming 
and the Baron were gone ; for the German’s 
heart was beating with strong desire to embrace 
his sister ; and the heart of his friend cared little 


168 


HYPERION 


whither he went, sobeit he were not too much 
alone. 

After a few hours’ drive, they were looking 
down from the summit of a hill directly upon 
the house-tops of Ems. There it lay, deep 
sunk in the hollow beneath them, as if some in¬ 
habitant of Sirius, like him spoken of in Vol¬ 
taire’s tale of Micromegas, held it in the hollow 
of his hand. High and peaked rise the hills 
that throw their shadows into this romantic val¬ 
ley, and at their base winds the river Lahn. 
Our travellers drove thro,ugh the one long street 
composed entirely of hotels and lodging-houses. 
Sick people looked out of the windows, as they 
passed. Others were walking leisurely up and 
down, beneath the few decapitated trees, which 
represent a public promenade ; and a boy, with 
a blue frock and crimson cap, was driving three 
donkeys down the street. In short, they were 
in a fashionable watering-place ; as yet sprinkled 
only by a few pattering drops of the summer rain 
of strangers, which generally follows the first hot 
days. 

On alighting at the London Hotel, the Baron 
found—not his sister, but only a letter from her, 
saying she had changed her mind and gone to the 


A ROMANCE. 


169 


Baths of Franconia. This was a disappoint¬ 
ment, which the Baron pocketed with the letter, 
and said not a word more about either. It was 
his way, — his philosophy in small things and 
great. In the evening, they went to an aesthetic 
tea, at the house of the Frau Kranich, the wife 
of a rich banker of Frankfort. 

“ I must tell you about this Frau Kranich,’’ 
said the Baron to Flemming, on the way. “ She 
is a woman of talent and beauty, and just in the 
prime of life ; but, unfortunately, very ambi¬ 
tious. Her mania is, to make a figure in the 
fashionable world ; and to this end she married 
a rich banker of Frankfort, old enough to be her 
father, not to say her grandfather, hoping, doubt¬ 
less, that he would soon die ; for, if ever a wo¬ 
man wished to be a widow, she is that woman. 
But the old fellow is tough and won’t die. 
Moreover, he is deaf, and crabbed, and penuri¬ 
ous, and half the time bedridden. The wife is 
a model of virtue, notwithstanding her weakness. 
She nurses the old gentleman as if he were a 
child. And, to crown all, he hates society, and 
will not hear of his wife’s receiving or going into 
company.” 

“ How, then, can she give soirees ? ” asked 
Flemming. 


170 


HYPERION, 


“ I was just going to tell you,” continued the 
Baron. “The gay lady has no taste for long 
evenings with the old gentleman in the back 
chamber, — for being thus chained like a crimi¬ 
nal under Mezentius, face to face with a dead 
body. So she puts him to bed first, and -” 

“ Gives him opium.” 

“Yes, I dare say ; and then gives herself a 
soiree, without his knowing any thing about it. 
This course of deception is truly hateful in itself, 
and must be particularly so to her, for she is not 
a low or an immoral woman; but one of those, 
who, not having strength enough to complete the 
sacrifice they have had strength enough to com¬ 
mence, are betrayed into a life of duplicity and 
falsehood.” 

They had now reached the house, and were 
ushered into a room gaily lighted and filled with 
guests. The hostess came forward to receive 
them, dressed in white, and sailing down the 
room like a swan. When the customary salu¬ 
tations had passed and Flemming had been duly 
presented, the Baron said, not without a certain 
degree of malice : — 

“ And, my dear Frau Kranich, how is your 
good husband to night } ” 



A ROMANCE. 


171 


This question was about as discreet as a can 
non-ball. But the lady replied, in the simplicity 
of her heart, and not in the least disconcerted : — 
‘‘ The same as ever, my dear Baron. It is 
astonishing how he holds out. But let us not 
talk of these things now. I must introduce your 
friend to his countryman, the Grand Duke of 
Mississippi; alike remarkable for his wealth, his 
modesty, and the extreme simplicity of his 
manners. He drives only six horses. Besides, 
he is known as a man of learning and piety ; — 
has his private chapel, and private clergyman, 
who always preaches against the vanity of world¬ 
ly riches. He has also a private secretary, 
whose sole duty is to smoke to him, that he miay 
enjoy the aroma of Spanish cigars, without the 
trouble of smoking.” 

“ Decidedly a man of* genius ! ” 

Here Flemming was introduced to his illustri¬ 
ous countryman ; a person who seemed to con¬ 
sist chiefly of linen, such a display did he make 
of collar, bosom, and wristbands. 

Pray, Mr. Flemming, what do you think 
of that Rembrandt ^ ” said he, pointing to a 
picture on the wall. “ Exquisite picture ! The 
grandeur of sentiment and splendor of chia- 


172 


HYPERION, 


roscuro are of the first order. Just observe the 
liquidity of the water, and the silveriness of 
the clouds ! Great power ! There is a bra¬ 
vura of handling in that picture. Sir, which 
it requires the eye of the connoisseur to ap¬ 
preciate.” 

“ Yes, a most undoubted — copy ! ” 

And here their conversation ended ; for at that 
moment the little hloldavian Prince Jerkin made 
his way through the crowd, with his snuff-box 
as usual in his hand, and hurried up to Flem¬ 
ming, whom he had known in Heidelberg. He 
was eager to let every one know that he spoke 
English, and in his haste began by making a 
mistake. 

“ Good bye ! Good bye ! Mr. Flemming! ” 
said he, instead of good evening. ‘‘I am rav¬ 
ished to see you in Ems. Nice place ; — all 
that there is of most nice. I drink my water and 
am good ! Do you not think the Frau Kranich 
has a very beautiful leather } ” 

He meant skin. Flemming laughed outright; 
but it was not perceived by the Prince, because 
at that moment he was pushed aside, in the rush 
of a gallopade, and Flemming beheld his face 
no more. At the same moment the Baron in- 


A ROMANCE. 


173 


troduced a friend of his, who also spoke English 
and said : — 

“You will sup with me to-night. I have 
some Rhine-wine, which will be a seduction 
to you.” 

Soon after, the Baron stood with an Impas¬ 
sioned, romantic lady leaning on his arm, exam¬ 
ining a copy of Raphael’s Fornarina. 

“ Ach ! I wish I had been the Fornarina,” 
sighed the impassioned, romantic lady. 

“ Then, my dear Madam,” replied the Baron, 
“ I wish I had been Raphael.” 

And so likewise said to himself a very tall man 
with fiery red hair and fancy whiskers, who was 
waltzing round and round in one spot, and in a 
most extraordinary waistcoat; thus representing 
a fiery floating-light, to warn men of the hidden 
rocks on which the breath of vanity drives them 
shipwreck. At length, his partner, tired of spin¬ 
ning, sank upon a sofa, like a child’s top, when it 
reels and falls. 

“ You do not like the waltz ^ ” said an elderly 
French gentleman, remarking the expression of 
Flemming’s countenance. 

“ O, yes ; among the figurantes of the opera. 
But I confess, it sometimes makes me shudder to 


174 


HYPERION, 


see a young rake clasp his arms round the waist 
of a pure and innocent girl. What would you 
say, were you to see him sitting on a sofa with 
his arms round your wife ?” 

‘‘ Mere prejudice of education,” replied the 
French gentleman. “ I know that situation. I 
have read all about it in the Bibliotheque de 
Romans Choisis ! ” 

And merrily went the dance ; and bright eyes 
and flushed cheeks were not wanting among the 
dancers ; 

“ And they waxed red, and waxed warm, 

And rested, panting, arm in arm ” ; 

and the Strauss-waltzes sounded pleasantly in the 
ears of Flemming, who, though he never danced, 
yet, like Henry of Ofterdingen, in the romance 
of Novalis, thought to music. The wheeling 
waltz set the wheels of his fancy going. And 
thus the moments glided on, and the footsteps 
of Time were not heard amid the sound of music 
and voices. 

But suddenly this scene of gayety was inter¬ 
rupted. The door opened wide ; and the short 
figure of a gray-haired old man presented itself, 
with a flushed countenance and wild eyes. He 
was but half-dressed, and in his hand held a 


A ROMANCE. 


175 


silver candlestick without a light. A sheet was 
wound round his head, like a turban ; and he 
tottered forward with a vacant, bewildered look, 
exclaiming : — 

I am Mahomet, the king of the Jews ! ” 

At the same moment he fell in a swoon, and 
was borne out of the room by the servants. 
Flemming looked at the lady of the festival, and 
she was deadly pale. For a moment, all was con¬ 
fusion ; and the dance and the music stopped. 
The impression produced on the company was 
at once ludicrous and awful. They tried in vain 
to rally. The whole society was like a dead 
body, from which the spirit has departed. Ere 
long, the guests had all dispersed, and left the 
lady of the mansion to her mournful, expiring 
lamps, and still more mournful reflections. 

“ Truly,” said Flemming to the Baron, as 
they wended their w^ay homeward, this seems 
not like reality ; but like one of the sharp con¬ 
trasts we find in novels. Who shall say, after 
this, that there is not more romance in real life 
than we find written in books ? ” 

“Not more romance,” said the Baron, “but 
a different romance.” 

A still more tragic scene had been that even- 



176 


HYPERION, 


mg enacted in Heidelberg. Just as the sun set, 

two female figures walked along the romantic 

woodland pathway, leading to the Angel’s Mead 

ow, a little green opening on the brow of one of 

the high hills which see themselves in the Neckar 

and hear the solemn bells of Kloster-Neuburg. 

The evening shadows were falling broad and 

long ; and the cuckoo began to sing. 

“ Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! ” said the eldest of the 

two figures, repeating an old German popular 

rhyme, — 

“ ‘ Cuckoo! cuckoo ’ 

Tell me true, 

Tell me fair and fine, 

How long must I unmarried pine? ’ ” 

It was the voice of an evil spirit, that spoke m 
the person of Madeleine ; and the pale and shrink¬ 
ing figure, that walked by her side, and listened 
to those words, was Emma of Ilmenau. A young 
man joined them, where the path turns into the 
thick woodlands ; and they disappeared among 
the shadowy branches. It was the Polish Count. 

The forget-me-nots looked up to heaven with 
their meek blue eyes, from their home in the 
Angel’s Meadow. Calmly stood the mountain 
of All-Saints, in its majestic, holy stillness ; — 
the river flowed so far below, that the murmur 


A ROMANCE. 


17*7 


of its waters was not heard ; — there was not a 
sigh of the evening wind among the leaves, — not 
a sound upon the earth nor in the air ; — and yet 
that night there fell a star from heaven! 


178 


HYPERION, 


CHAPTER X. 

THE PARTING. 

It was now that season of the year, which an 
old English writer calls the amiable month of 
June, and at that hour of the day, when, face to 
face, the rising moon beholds the setting sun. 
As yet the stars were few in heaven. But, after 
the heat of the day, the coolness and the twilight 
descended like a benediction upon the earth, by 
all those gentle sounds attended which are the 
meek companions of the night. 

Flemming and the Baron had passed the after¬ 
noon at the Castle. They had rambled once more 
together, and for the last time, over the magnifi¬ 
cent ruin. On the morrow they were to part, 
perhaps for ever. The Baron was going to Ber¬ 
lin, to join his sister ; and Flemming, driven for¬ 
ward by the restless spirit within him, longed once 
more for a change of scene, and was to start for 


A ROMANCE. 


179 


the Tyrol and Switzerland. Alas ! he never said 
to the passing hour, “ Stay, for thou art fair ! ” 
but reached forward into the dark future, with 
unsatisfied longings and aimless desires that were 
never still. 

As the day was closing, they sat down on the 
terrace of Elizabeth’s Garden. The sun had 
set beyond the blue Alsatian hills ; and on the 
valley of the Rhine fell the purple mist, like the 
mantle of the departing prophet from his fiery 
chariot. Over the castle walls and the trees of 
the garden rose the large moon ; and between 
the contending daylight and moonlight there were 
as yet no shadows. But at length the shadows 
came, — transparent and faint outlines, that deep¬ 
ened into form. In the valley below only the 
river gleamed, like steel; and here and there ihe 
lamps were lighted in the town. Solemnly stood 
the leafy linden-trees in the garden near them, 
their trunks in darkness and their summits bronzed 
with moonlight ; and in his niche in the great 
round tower, overhung with ivy, like a majestic 
phantom, stood the gray statue of Louis, with his 
venerable beard, and shirt of mail, and flowing 
mantle ; and the mild, majestic countenance look¬ 
ed forth into the silent night, as the countenance 


180 


HYPERION, 


of a seer who reads the stars. At intervals, the 
wind of the summer night passed through the 
ruined castle and the trees, and they sent forth a 
sound as if Nature were sighing in her dreams ; 
and for a moment, overhead, the broad leaves 
gently clashed together, like brazen cymbals, with 
a tinkling sound ; and then all w^as still, save the 
sweet, passionate song of nightingales, that no¬ 
where sing more sweetly than in the gardens of 
Heidelberg Castle. 

The hour, the scene, and the near-approaching 
separation of the two young friends had filled 
their hearts with a pleasant, though at the same 
time not painless excitement. They had been 
conversing about the magnificent old ruin, and the 
ages in which it had been built, and the vicissi¬ 
tudes of time and war, that had battered down its 
walls, and left it “ tenantless, save to the cranny- 
ing wind.” 

“ How sorrowful and sublime is the face of 
that statue yonder ! ” said Flemming. “ It re¬ 
minds me of the old Danish hero Beowulf; for 
‘ careful, sorrowing, he seeth in his son’s bower 
the wine-hall deserted, the resort of the wind, 
noiseless ; the knight sleepeth; the warrior lieth 
in darkness ; there is no noise of the harp, no 
joy in the dwellings, as there was before.’ ” 


A ROMANCE. 


181 


“ Even as you say,” replied the Baron ; “ but 
it often astonishes me, that, coming from that 
fresh green world of yours beyond the sea, you 
should feel so much interest in these old things ; 
nay, at times, seem so to have drunk in their 
spirit, as really to live in the times of old. For 
my part, I do not see what charm there is in the 
pale and wrinkled countenance of the Past, so to 
entice the soul of a young man. It seems to me 
like falling in love with one’s grandmother. Give 
me the Present, — warm, glowing, palpitating 
with life. She is my mistress ; and the Future 
stands waiting like my wife that is to be,—for 
whom, to tell the truth, I care very little just 
now. Indeed, my friend, I wish you would take 
more heed of this philosophy of mine ; and not 
waste the golden hours of youth in vain regrets 
for the past, and indefinite, dim longings for the 
future. Youth comes but once in a lifetime.” 

“ Therefore,” said Flemming, “ let us so en¬ 
joy it as to be still young when we are old. For 
my part, I grow happier as I grow older. When 
I compare my sensations and enjoyments now 
with what they were ten years ago, the compari¬ 
son is vastly in favor of the present. Much of 
the fever and fretfulness of life is over. The 


182 


HYPERION 


world and I look each other more calmly in the 
face. My mind is more self-possessed. It has 
done me good to be somewhat parched by the 
heat and drenched by the rain of life.” 

‘‘Now you speak like an old philosopher,” an¬ 
swered the Baron, laughing. “ But you deceive 
yourself. I never knew a more restless, feverish 
spirit than yours. Do not think you have gained 
the mastery yet. You are only riding at anchor 
here in an eddy of the stream ; you will soon be 
swept away again in the mighty current and whirl 
of accident. Do not trust this momentary calm. 
I know you better than you know yourself. 
There is something Faust-like in you ; you would 
fain grasp the highest and the deepest, and ‘ reel 
from desire to enjoyment, and in enjoyment lan¬ 
guish for desire.’ When a momentary change of 
feeling comes over you, you think the change per¬ 
manent, and thus live in constant self-deception.” 

“ I confess,” said Flemming, “there may be 
some truth in what you say. There are times 
when my soul is restless ; and a voice sounds 
within me, like the trump of the archangel, and 
thoughts that were buried, long ago, come out of 
their graves. At such times my favorite occupa¬ 
tions and pursuits no longer charm me. The 
quiet face of Nature seems to mock me.” 


A ROMANCE. 


183 


“ There certainly are seasons,” replied the 
Baron, ‘‘ when Nature seems not to sympathize 
with her beloved children. She sits there so 
eternally calm and self-possessed, so very moth¬ 
erly and serene, and cares so little whether the 
heart of her child breaks or not, that at times I 
almost lose my patience. About that, too, she 
cares so little, that, out of sheer obstinacy, I be¬ 
come good-humored again, and then she smiles.” 

“ I think we must confess, however,” con¬ 
tinued Flemming, “ that all this springs from our 
own imperfection, not from hers. How beautiful 
is this green world which we inhabit ! See yon¬ 
der, how the moonlight mingles with the mist ! 
What a glorious night is this ! Truly, every man 
has a Paradise around him, until he sins, and the 
angel of an accusing conscience drives him from 
his Eden. And even then there are holy hours, 
when this angel sleeps, and man comes back, 
and, with the innocent eyes of a child, looks into 
his lost Paradise again, — into the broad gates 
and rural solitudes of Nature. I feel this often. 
We have much to enjoy in the quiet and retire¬ 
ment of our own thoughts. Boisterous mirth and 
loud laughter are not my mood. I love that tran¬ 
quillity of soul, in which we feel the blessing of 


184 


HYPERION, 


existence, and which in itself is a prayer and a 
thanksgiving. I find, however, that, as I grow old¬ 
er, I love the country less, and the town more.” 

“ Yes,” interrupted the Baron ; ‘‘ and pres¬ 
ently you will love the town less and the country 
more. Say at once, that you have an undefined 
longing for both ; and prefer town or country, 
according to the mood you are in. I think a 
man must be of a very quiet and happy nature, 
who can long endure the country ; and, more¬ 
over, very well contented with his own insignifi¬ 
cant person, very self-complacent, to be continu¬ 
ally occupied with himself and his own thoughts. 
To say the least, a town life makes one more 
tolerant and liberal in one’s judgment of others. 
One is not eternally wrapped up in self-contem¬ 
plation ; which, after all, is only a more holy kind 
of vanity.” 

In conversation like this, the hours glided away; 
till at length, from the Giant’s Tower, the castle 
clock struck twelve, with a sound that seemed to 
come from the Middle Ages. Like watchmen 
from their belfries, the city clocks answered it, 
one by one. Then distant and muffled sounds 
were heard. Inarticulate words seemed to blot 
ihe foggy air, as if written on wet jTaper. These 


A ROMANCE. 


185 


were the bells of Handschuhsheimer, and of other 
villages on the broad plain of the Rhine and 
among the hills of the Odenwald ; mysterious 
sounds, that seemed not of this world. 

Beneath them, in the shadow of the hills, lay 
the valley,—fathomless, black, impenetrable. 
Above were the cloistered stars, that, nun-like, 
walk the holy aisles of heaven. The city was 
asleep in the valley below ; all asleep and silent, 
save the clocks, that had just struck twelve, and 
the veering, golden weathercocks, that were swim¬ 
ming in the moonlight, like golden fishes in a glass 
vase. And again the wind of the summer night 
passed through the old castle, and the trees, and 
the nightingales recorded under the dark, shad¬ 
owy leaves, and the heart of Flemming was full. 

When he had retired to his chamber, a feeling 
of utter loneliness came over him. The night 
before one begins a journey is always a dismal 
night; for, as Byron says, 

“In leaving even the most unpleasant people 
And places, one keeps looking at the steeple ! ” 

and how much more so when the place and peo¬ 
ple are pleasant! as was the case with those that 
Flemming was now leaving. No wonder he was 
sad and sleepless. Thoughts came and went, 


186 


HYPERION. 


and bright and gloomy fancies, and dreams and 
visions, and sweet faces looked under his closed 
eyelids, and vanished away, and came again, and 
again departed. He heard the clock strike from 
hour to hour, and said, ‘‘ Another hour is gone.” 
At length the birds began to sing ; and ever and 
anon the cock crew. He arose, and looked forth 
into the gray dawn ; and before him lay the city 
he was so soon to leave, all white and ghastly, 
like a city that had arisen from its grave. 

“ All things must change,” said he to the 
Baron, as he embraced him, and held him by the 
hand. “ Friends must be torn asunder, and 
swept along in the current of events, to see each 
other seldom, and perchance no more. For ever 
and ever in the eddies of time and accident we 
whirl away. Besides which, some of us have a 
perpetual motion in our wooden heads, as Wo- 
denblock had in his wooden leg ; and like him we 
travel on, without rest or sleep, and have hardly 
time to take a friend by the hand in passing ; and 
at length are seen hurrying through some distant 
land, worn to a skeleton, and all unknown.” 


BOOK THE THIRD. 


“Take away the lights, too; 

The moon lends me too much to find my fears, 
And those devotions I am now to pay 
Are written in my heart, not in thy book; 

And I shall read them there without a taper.” 


V 





BOOK THE THIRD. 


CHAPTER I. 

SUMMER-TIME. 

They were right, — those old German Minne¬ 
singers, — to sing the pleasant summer-time ! 
What a time it is ! How June stands illuminated 
in the calendar ! The windows are all wide 
open; only the Venetian blinds closed. Here 
and there a long streak of sunshine streams in 
through a crevice. We hear the low sound of 
the wind among the trees; and, as it swells and 
freshens, the distant doors clap to, with a sudden 
sound. The trees are heavy with leaves ; and 
the gardens full of blossoms, red and white. The 
whole atmosphere is laden with perfume and sun¬ 
shine. The birds sing. The cock struts about, 
and crows loftily. Insects chirp in the grass. 
Yellow buttercups stud the green carpet like 



190 


HYPERION, 


golden buttons, and the red blossoms of the clo¬ 
ver like rubies. The elm-trees reach their long, 
pendulous branches almost to the ground. White 
clouds sail aloft; and vapors fret the blue sky 
with silver threads. ^The white village gleams 
afar against the dark hills. Through the meadow 
winds the river, — careless, indolent. It seems 
to love the country, and is in no haste to reach 
the sea. The bee only is at work, — the hot 
and angry bee. All things else are at play ; he 
never plays, and is vexed that any one should. 

People drive out from town to breathe, and to 
be happy. Most of them have flowers in their 
hands ; bunches of apple-blossoms, and still 
oftener lilacs. Ye denizens of the crowded city, 
how pleasant to you is the change from the sultry 
streets to the open field, fragrant with clover- 
blossoms ! how pleasant the fresh, breezy coun¬ 
try air, dashed with brine from the meadows ! 
how pleasant, above all, the flowers,—the mani¬ 
fold, beautiful flowers ! 

It is no longer day. Through the trees rises 
the red moon, and the stars are scarcely seen. 
In the vast shadow of night, the coolness and the 
det^s descend. I sit at the open window to enjoy 
them ; and hear only the voice of the summer 


A ROMANCE. 


191 


wind. Like black hulks, the shadows of the 
great trees ride at anchor on the billowy sea of 
grass. I cannot see the red and blue flowers, 
but I know that they are there. Far away in the 
meadow gleams the silver Charles. The tramp 
of horses’ hoofs sounds from the wooden bridge. 
Then all is still, save the continuous wind of the 
summer night. Sometimes I know not if it be 
the wind or the sound of the neighbouring sea. 
The village clock strikes ; and I feel that I am 
not alone. 

How different is it in the city ! It is late, and 
the crowd is gone. You step out upon the bal¬ 
cony, and lie in the very bosom of the cool, 
dewy night, as if you folded her garments about 
you. Beneath lies the public walk with trees, 
like a fathomless, black gulf, into whose silent 
darkness the spirit plunges and floats away, with 
some beloved spirit clasped in its embrace. The 
lamps are still, burning up and down the long 
street. People go by, with grotesque shadows, 
now foreshortened, and now lengthening away into 
the darkness and vanishing, while a new one 
springs up behind the walker, and seems to pass 
him, revolving like the sail of a windmill. The 
iron gates of the park shut with a jangling clang. 


192 


HYPERION, 


There are footsteps and loud voices ; — a tu¬ 
mult, — a drunken brawl, — an alarm of fire ; — 
then silence again. And now at length the city 
is asleep, and we can see the night. The belated 
moon looks over the roofs, and finds no one to 
welcome her. The moonlight is broken. It 
lies here and there in the squares, and the open¬ 
ing of streets, — angular, like blocks of white 
marble. 


Under such a green, triumphal arch, O Reader, 
with the odor of flowers about thee, and the song 
of birds, shalt thou pass onward into the en¬ 
chanted land, as through the Ivory Gate of 
dreams ! And as a prelude and majestic march, 
one sweet human voice, coming from the bosom 
of the Alps, sings this sublime ode, wdiich the 
Alpine echoes repeat afar. 

“ Come, golden Evening ! in the west 
Enthrone the storm-dispelling sun, 

And let the triple rainbow rest 
O’er all the mountain-tops. ’T is done; — 

The tempest ceases; bold and bright. 

The rainbow shoots from hill to hill j 
Down sinks the sun; on presses night; — 

Mont Blanc is lovely still! 



A ROMANCE. 


193 


“ There take thy stand, my spirit; — spread 
The world of shadows at thy feet; 

And mark how calmly, overhead. 

The stars, like saints in glory, meet. 
While hid in solitude sublime, 

Methinks I muse on Nature’s tomb. 

And hear the passing foot of Time 
Step through the silent gloom. 

“ All in a moment, crash on crash. 

From precipice to precipice. 

An avalanche’s ruins dash 

Down to the nethermost abyss. 

Invisible j the ear alone 

Pursues the uproar till it dies ; 

Echo to echo, groan for groan. 

From deep to deep, replies. 

“ Silence again the darkness seals. 

Darkness that may be felt; —but soon 
The silver-clouded east reveals 

The midnight spectre of the moon * 

In half-eclipse she lifts her horn. 

Yet o’er the host of heaven supreme 
Brings the faint semblance of a morn. 
With her awakening beam. 

“ Ah ! at her touch, these Alpine heights 
Unreal mockeries appear; 

With blacker shadows, ghastlier lights. 
Emerging as she climbs the sphere; 


194 


HYPERION, 

A crowd of apparitions pale ! 

I hold my breath in chill suspense, 

They seem so exquisitely frail, 

Lest they should vanish hence. 

“ I breathe again, I freely breathe; 

Thee, Leman’s Lake, once more I trace, 
Like Dian’s crescent far beneath. 

As beautiful as Dian’s face: 

Pride of the land that gave me birth! 

All that thy waves reflect I love. 

Where heaven itself, brought down to earVi, 
Looks fairer than above. 

“ Safe on thy banks again I stray; 

The trance of poesy is o’er. 

And I am here at dawn of day. 

Gazing on mountains as before. 

Where all the strange mutations wrought 
Were magic feats of my own mind; 

For, in that fairy land of thought, 

Whate’er I seek, 1 find.” 


A ROMANCE, 


195 


CHAPTER II. 

FOOT-TRAVELLING. 

Tell me, my soul, why art thou restless f 
Why dost thou look forward to the future with 
such strong desire ? The present is thine, — 
and the past,^ — and the future shall he ! O, that 
thou didst look forward to the great hereafter 
with half the longing wherewith thou longest for 
an earthly future, — which a few days, at most, 
will bring thee ! to the meeting of the dead, as 
to the meeting of the absent ! Thou glorious 
spirit-land ! O, that I could behold thee as thou 
art, — the region of life, and light, and love, and 
the dwelling-place of those beloved ones whose 
being has flowed onward, like a silver-clear stream 
into the solemn-sounding main, into the ocean of 
Eternity! 

Such were the thoughts that passed through the 
soul of Flemming, as he lay in utter solitude and 


196 


HYPERION, 


silence on the rounded summit of one of the 
mountains of the Furca Pass, and gazed, with 
tears in his eyes, and ardent longing in his heart, 
into the blue, swimming heaven overhead, and at 
the glaciers and snowy mountain-peaks around 
him. Highest and whitest of all stood the peak 
of the Jungfrau, which seemed near him, though 
it rose afar off from the bosom of the Lauter- 
brunner Thai. There it stood, holy and high 
and pure, the bride of heaven, veiled and clothed 
in white, and lifting the thoughts of the beholder 
heavenward. O, he little thought then, as he 
gazed at it with longing and delightf how soon a 
form was to arise in his own soul, as holy, and 
high, and pure as this, and like this point heaven¬ 
ward ! 

Thus lay the traveller on the mountain summit, 
reposing his tveary limbs on the short, brown 
grass, which more resembled moss than grass. 
He had sent his guide forward, that he might be 
alone. His soul within him was wild with a fierce 
and painful delight. The mountain air excited 
him ; the mountain solitudes enticed, yet mad¬ 
dened him. Every peak, every sharp, jagged 
iceberg, seemed to pierce him. The silence was 
awful and sublime. It was like that in the soul 


A ROMANCE. 


197 


of a dying man, when he hears no more the 
sounds of earth. He seemed to be laying aside 
his earthly garments. The heavens were near 
unto him ; but between him and heaven every evil 
deed he had done arose gigantic, like those 
mountain-peaks, and breathed an icy breath upon 
him. O, let not the soul that suffers dare to 
look Nature in the face, where she sits majesti¬ 
cally aloft in the solitude of the mountains ! for 
her face is hard and stern, and turns not in com¬ 
passion upon her weak and erring child. It is 
the countenance of an accusing archangel, who 
summons us to judgment. In the valley she 
wears the countenance of a Virgin Mother, look¬ 
ing at us with tearful eyes, and a face of pity 
and love ! 

But yesterday Flemming had come up the val¬ 
ley of the Saint Gothard Pass, through Amsteg, 
where the Kerstelenbach comes dashing down 
the Maderaner Thai, from its snowy cradle over¬ 
head. The road is steep, and runs on zigzag 
terraces. The sides of the mountains are barren 
cliffs ; and from their cloud-capped summits, 
unheard amid the roar of the great torrent below, 
come streams of snow-white foam, leaping from 
rock to rock, like the mountain chamois. As 




198 


HYPERION, 


you advance, the scene grows wilder and more 
desolate. There is not a tree in sight, — not a 
human habitation. Clouds, black as midnight, 
lower upon you from the ravines above ; and the 
mountain torrent beneath is but a sheet of foam, 
and sends up an incessant roar. A sudden turn 
in the road brings you in sight of a lofty bridge, 
stepping from cliff to cliff with a single stride. 
A mighty cataract howls beneath it, like an evil 
spirit, and fills the air with mist; and the moun 
tain wirfd claps its hands and shrieks through the 
narrow pass, Ha ! ha ! This is the Devil’s 
Bridge. It leads the traveller across the fear¬ 
ful chasm, and through a mountain gallery into 
the broad, green, silent meadow of Andermath. 

Even the sunny morning, which followed this 
gloomy day, had not chased the desolate impres¬ 
sion from the soul of Flemming. His excite¬ 
ment increased as he lost himself more and more 
among the mountains ; and now, as he lay alone 
on the summit of the sunny hill, with only gla¬ 
ciers and snowy peaks about him, his soul, as I 
have said, was wild with a fierce and painful 
delight. 

A human voice broke his reverie. He looked, 
and beheld, at a short distance from him, the 


A ROMANCE. 


199 


athletic form of a mountain herdsman, who was 
approaching the spot where he lay. He was a 
young man, clothed in a rustic garb, and holding 
a long staff in his hand. When Flemming rose, 
he stood still, and gazed at him, as if he loved 
the face of man, even of a stranger, and longed 
to hear a human voice, though it might speak in 
an unknown tongue. He answered Flemming’s 
salutation in a rude mountain dialect, and in reply 
to his questions said : — 

“ T, with two others, have charge of two hun¬ 
dred head of cattle on these mountains. Through 
the two summer months, we remain here night and 
day ; for which we receive each a napoleon.” 

Flemming gave him half his summer wages. 
He was glad to do a good deed in secret, and yet 
so near heaven. The man received it as his due, 
like a toll-keeper ; and soon after departed, leav¬ 
ing the traveller alone. And the traveller went 
his way down the mountain, as one distraught. 
He stopped only to pluck one bright blue flower, 
which bloomed alone in the vast desert, and looked 
up at him, as if to say, “ O, take me with you ! 
leave me not here companionless ! ” 

Ere long he reached the magnificent glacier of 
the Rhone ; a frozen cataract, more than two 


200 


HYPERION 


thousand feet in height, and many miles broad at 
Its base. It fills the whole valley between two 
mountains, running back to their summits. At 
the base it is arched, like a dome ; and above, 
jagged and rough, and resembles a mass of gigan¬ 
tic crystals, of a pale emerald tint, mingled with 
white. A snowy crust covers its surface; but at 
every rent and crevice the pale green ice shines 
clear in the sun. Its shape is that of a glove, 
lying with the palm downwards, and the fingers 
crooked and close together. It is a gauntlet of 
ice, which, centuries ago. Winter, the king of 
these mountains, threw down in defiance to the 
Sun ; and year by year the Sun strives in vain 
to lift it from the ground on the point of his glit¬ 
tering spear. A feeling of wonder and delight 
came over the soul of Flemming when he beheld 
it, and he shouted and cried aloud : — 

“ How wonderful ! how glorious ! ” 

After lingering a few hours in the cold, deso¬ 
late valley, he climbed in the afternoon the steep 
Mayen-Wand, on the Grimsel; passed the Lake 
of the Dead, with its ink-black waters ; and 
through the melting snow, and over slippery step¬ 
ping-stones in the beds of numberless shallow 
brooks, descended to the Grimsel Hospital, where 


A ROMANCE. 


201 


he passed the night, and thought it the most lone 
and desolate spot that man ever slept in. 

On the morrow, he rose with the day; and the 
rising sun found him already standing on the rus¬ 
tic bridge which hangs over the verge of the 
Falls of the Aar at Handeck, where the river 
pitches down a precipice into a narrow and fear¬ 
ful abyss shut in by perpendicular cliffs. At 
right angles with it comes the beautiful Aerlen- 
bach; and half-way down, the double cascade 
mingles into one. Thus he pursued his way down 
the Hash Thai into the Bernese Oberland, — 
restless, impatient, he knew not why, — stopping 
seldom, and never long, — and then rushing for¬ 
ward again, like the rushing river whose steps he 
followed, and in whose ice-cold waters ever and 
anon he bathed his wrists, to cool the fever in 
his blood ; for the noonday sun was hot. 

His heart dilated in the dilating valley, that 
grew broader and greener at every step. The 
sight of human faces and human dwellings soothed 
him; and through the fields of summer grain, in 
the broad meadows of Imgrund, he walked with 
a heart that ached no more, but trembled only, as 
our eyelids when we have done weeping. As he 
climbed the opposite hill, which hems in this ro- 


202 


HYPERION 


mantic valley, and, like a heavy yoke, chafes the 
neck of the Aar, he believed the ancient tradition, 
which says that once the valley was a lake. 
From the summit of the hill he looked southward 
upon a beautiful landscape of gardens, and fields 
*of grain, and woodlands, and meadows, and the 
rancient castle of Resti, looking down upon Mey- 
iringen. And now all around him were the sing¬ 
ing of birds, and grateful shadows of the leafy 
trees, and sheeted waterfalls dropping from the 
woodland cliffs, seen only, but unheard,—the 
fluted columns breaking into mist, and fretted with 
frequent spires and ornaments of foam, and not 
unlike the towers of a Gothic church inverted. 
There, in one white sheet of foam, the Riechen- 
bach pours down into its deep beaker, into which 
the sun never shines. Face to face it beholds 
the Alpbach falling from the opposite hill, “ like 
a downward smoke.” When Flemming saw the 
innumerable runnels, sliding down the mountain¬ 
side, and leaping, all life and gladness, he would 
fain have clasped them in his arms and been their 
playmate, and revelled with them in their freedom 
and delight. Yet he was weary with the day’s 
journey, and entered the village of Meyringen, 
.empowered in cherry-trees, which were then laden 


A ROMANCE. 


203 


with fruit, more like a wayworn traveller than an 
enthusiastic poet. As he went up the tavern- 
steps, he said in his heart, with the Italian Areti- 
no : He who has not been at a tavern knows 
not what a paradise it is. O holy tavern ! O 
miraculous tavern ! — holy, because no carking 
cares are there, nor weariness, nor pain ; and 
miraculous, because of the spits, which of them¬ 
selves turn round and round ! Of a truth, all 
courtesy and good manners come from taverns, so 
full of bows, and Signor, si! and Signor, no.'” 

But even in the tavern he could not rest long. 
The same evening at sunset he was floating on 
the lake of Brienz, in an open boat, close un¬ 
der the cascade of the Giessbach, hearing the 
peasants sing the Ranz des Vaches. He slept 
that night at the other extremity of the lake, in a 
large house, which, like Saint Peter’s at Joppa, 
stood by the water’s side. The next day he 
wasted in writing letters, musing in this green 
nest, and paddling about the lake again ; and in 
the evening went across the beautiful meadows 
to Interlachen, where many things happened to 
him, and detained him long. 


204 


HYPERION, 


CHAPTER III. 

INTERLACHEN. 

Interlachen ! How peacefully, by the 
margin of the swift-rushing Aar, thou liest on 
the broad lap of those romantic meadows, all 
overshadowed by the wide arms of giant trees ! 
Only the round towers of thine ancient cloister 
rise above their summits ; the round towers them¬ 
selves, but a child’s playthings under the great 
church-towers of the mountains. Close beside 
thee are lakes, which the flowing band of the 
river ties together. Before thee opens the mag¬ 
nificent valley of Lauterbrunnen, where the 
cloud-hooded Monk and pale Virgin stand like 
Saint Francis and his Bride of Snow; and 
around thee are fields, and orchards, and hamlets 
green, from which the church-bells answer each 
other at evening. The evening sun was setting 
when I first beheld thee. The sun of life will 


A ROMANCE. 


205 


set ere I forget thee ! Surely it was a scene 
like this, that inspired the soul of the Swiss po¬ 
et, in his Song of the Bell ! 

“ Bell! thou soundest* merrily, 

When the bridal parly 
To the church doth hie ! 

Bell! thou soundest solemnly 
When, on Sabbath morning, 

Fields deserted lie! 

“ Bell! thou soundest merrily 
Tellest thou at evening. 

Bed-time draweth nigh ‘ 

Bell! thou soundest mournfully; 

Tellest thou the bitter 
Parting hath gone by ! 

“ Say! how canst thou mourn ^ 

How canst thou rejoice ? 

Art but metal dull! 

And yet all our sorrowings. 

And all our rejoicings. 

Thou dost feel them all! 

“ God hath wonders many. 

Which we cannot fathom. 

Placed within thy form ! 

When the heart is sinking, 

Thou alone canst raise it. 

Trembling in the storm ! ” 

Paul Flemming alighted at one of the princi¬ 
pal hotels. The landlord came out to meet him. 


206 


HYPERION, 


He had great eyes and a green coat; and re¬ 
minded Flemming of the innkeeper mentioned in 
the Golden Ass, who had been changed by mag¬ 
ic into a frog, and croaked to his customers from 
the lees of a wine-cask. His house, he said, 
was full, and so was every house in Interlachen ; 
but, if the gentleman would walk in, he would 
procure a chamber for him in the neighbour¬ 
hood. 

On the sofa sat a gentleman, reading; a stout 
gentleman of perhaps forty-five, round, ruddy, 
and with a head, which, being a little bald on the 
top, looked not unlike a crow’s nest with one 
egg in it. A good-humored face turned from the 
book as Flemming entered ; and a good-hu¬ 
mored voice exclaimed : — 

“ Ha ! ha ! Mr. Flemming ! Is it you, or 
your apparition ? I told you we should meet 
again ! though you were for taking an eternal 
farewell of your fellow-traveller.” 

Saying these words, the stout gentleman rose 
and shook Flemming heartily by the hand. And 
Flemming returned the shake as heartily, recog¬ 
nizing in this ruddy personage a former travelling- 
companion, Mr. Berkley, whom he had left, a 
week or two previous, toiling up the Righi. Mr. 


A ROMANCE. 


207 


Berkley was an Englishman of fortune ; a good- 
humored, humane old bachelor ; remarkable alike 
for his common sense and his eccentricity. That 
is to say, the basis of his character was good, 
sound common sense, trodden down and smooth¬ 
ed by education ; but this level groundwork his 
strange and whimsical fancy used as a dancing- 
floor, whereon to exhibit her eccentric tricks. 
His ruling passion vras cold-bathing ; and he 
usually ate his breakfast sitting in a tub of cold 
water, and reading a newspaper. He kissed ev¬ 
ery child he met; and to every old man said, in 
passing, “God bless you !” with such an ex¬ 
pression of voice and countenance, that no one 
could doubt his sincerity. He reminded one of 
Roger Bontemps, or the Little Man in Gray; 
though with a difference. 

“ The last time I had the pleasure of seeing 
you, Mr. Berkley,” said Flemming, “ was at 
Goldau, just as you were going up the Righi. 
I hope you were gratified with a fine sunrise on 
the mountain-top.” 

“ No, I was not! ” replied Mr. Berkley. 
“It is all a humbug I a confounded humbug ! 
They made such a noise about their sunrise, that 
I determined I would not see it. So I lay snug 


208 


HYPERION, 


in bed ; and only peeped through the window- 
curtain. That was enough. Just above the 
house, on the top of the hill, stood some fifty 
half-dressed, romantic individuals, shivering in 
the wet grass; and, a short distance from them, 
a miserable wretch, blowing a long, wooden horn. 
‘ That’s your sunrise on the Righi, is it } ’ said I; 
and went to sleep again. The best thing I saw 
at the Culm was the advertisement on the bed¬ 
room doors, saying, that, if the women would 
wear the quilts and blankets for shawls, when 
they went out to see the sunrise, they must pay 
for the washing. Take my word for it, the Ri¬ 
ghi is a great humbug ! ’’ 

“ Where have you been since ? ’’ 

‘‘ At Zurich and Schaffhausen. If you go to 
Zurich, beware how you stop at the Raven. 
They will cheat you. They cheated me ; but I 
had my revenge ; for, when we reached SchafF- 
hausen, I wrote in the Traveller’s Book,— 

Beware of the Raven of Zurich ! 

’T is a bird of omen ill; 

With a noisy and an unclean nest, 

And a very, very long bill. 

If you go to the Golden Falken, you will find it 
there. I am the author of those lines ! ” 


A ROMANCE. 


2(B 

“ Bitter as Juvenal ! ” exclaimed Flemming. 

“ Not in the least bitter,” said Mr. Berkley. 
‘‘It is all true. Go to the Raven and see. But 
this Interlachen ! this Interlacheri ! It is the 
loveliest spot on the face of the earth,” he con¬ 
tinued, stretching out both arms, as if to embrace 
the object of his affection. “There, — only 
look out there ! ” 

Here he pointed to the window. Flemming 
looked, and beheld a scene of transcendent beau¬ 
ty. The plain was covered already by the 
brown shade of the summer twilight. From the 
cottage roofs in Unterseen rose here and there a 
thin column of smoke over the tops of the trees, 
and mingled with the evening shadows. The 
valley of Lauterbrunnen was filled with a blue 
haze. Far above, in the clear, cloudless heaven, 
the white forehead of the Jungfrau blushed at the 
last kiss of the departing sun. It was a glorious 
Transfiguration of Nature ! And when the vil¬ 
lage bells began to ring, and a single voice at a 
great distance was heard yodling forth a ballad, it 
rather broke than increased the enchantment of a 
scene, where silence was more musical than 
sound. 

For a long time they gazed at the gloaming 
14 


210 


HYPERION 


landscape, and spake not. At length people 
came in, and laid aside their shawls and hats, and 
exchanged a word or two with Berkley. To 
Flemming they were all unknown. The con¬ 
versation turned upon the various excursions of 
the day. Some had been at the Staubbach, 
others at the Grindelwald, others at the Lake of 
Thun ; and nobody before had ever experienced 
half the rapture which they had experienced that 
day. And thus they sat in the twilight, as peo¬ 
ple love to do, at the close of a summer day. 
As yet the lamps had not been lighted, and one 
could not distinguish faces ; but voices only, and 
forms, like shadows. 

Presently a female figure, clothed in black, en¬ 
tered the room and sat down by the window. 
She rather listened to the conversation, than 
joined in it; but the few words she said were 
spoken in a voice so musical and full of soul, that 
it moved the soul of Flemming, like a whisper 
from heaven. 

O, how wonderful is the human voice ! It is 
indeed the organ of the soul 1 The intellect of 
man sits enthroned visibly upon his forehead and 
in his eye ; and the heart of man is written upon 
his countenance. But the soul reveals itself in 


A ROMANCE. 


211 


the voice only ; as God revealed himself to the 
prophet of old in the still, small voice, and in a 
voice from the burning bush. The soul of man 
is audible, not visible. A sound alone betrays 
the flowing of the eternal fountain, invisible to 
man ! 

Flemming would fain have sat and listened for 
hours to the sound of that unknown voice. He 
felt sure, in his secret heart, that the being from 
whom it came was beautiful. His imagination 
filled up the faint outline which the eye beheld 
in the fading twilight, and the figure stood already 
in his mind like Raphael’s beautiful Madonna in 
the Dresden gallery. He was never more mis¬ 
taken in his life. The voice belonged to a beau¬ 
tiful being, it is true ; but her beauty was differ¬ 
ent from that of any Madonna which Raphael 
ever painted ; as he would have seen, had he 
waited till the lamps were lighted. But in the 
midst of his reverie and saint-painting, the land¬ 
lord came in, and told him he had found a cham¬ 
ber, which he begged him to go and look at. 

Flemming took his leave and departed. Berk¬ 
ley went with him, to see, he said, what kind of 
a nest his young friend was to sleep in. 

“ The chamber is not what I could wish,” 


212 


HYPERION, 


said the landlord, as he led them across the street. 
“ It is in the old cloister. But to-morrow or 
next day, you can, no doubt, have a room at the 
house.” 

The name of the cloister struck Flemming’s 
imagination pleasantly. He was owl enough to 
like ruins and old chambers, where nuns or friars 
had slept. And he said to Berkley : — 

“ So, you perceive, my nest is to be in a 
cloister. It already makes me think of a bird’s- 
nest I once saw on an old tower of Heidelberg 
Castle, built in the jaws of a lion, which formerly 
served as a spout. But pray tell me, who was 
that young lady, with the soft voice ” 

“ What young lady with the soft voice 
“ The young lady in black, who sat by the 
window.” 

“ O, she is the daughter of an English officer, 
who died not long ago at Naples. She is passing 
the summer here with her mother.” 

What is her name } ” 

“ Ashburton.” 

“ Is she beautiful } ” 

Not beautiful ; but very intellectual. A 
woman of genius, I should say.” 

And now they had reached the walls of the 


A ROMANCE. 


213 


cloister, and passed under an arched gateway, 
and close beneath the round towers, which Flem¬ 
ming had already seen, rising with their cone- 
shaped roofs above the trees, like tall tapers, 
with extinguishers upon them. 

‘‘ It is not so bad as it looks,” said the land¬ 
lord, knocking at a small door, in the main build¬ 
ing. “ The bailiff lives in one part of it.” 

A servant girl, with a candle in her hand, open¬ 
ed the door, and conducted Flemming and Berk¬ 
ley to the chamber which had been engaged. It 
was a large room on the lower floor, wainscoted 
with pine, and unpainted. Three lofty and nar¬ 
row windows, with leaden lattices and small 
panes, looked southward towards the valley of 
Lauterbrunnen and the mountains. In one cor¬ 
ner was a large square bed, with a tester and 
checked curtains. In another, a huge stove of 
painted tiles, reaching almost to the ceiling. An 
old sofa, a few high-backed, antique chairs, and a 
table, completed the furniture of the room. 

Thus Flemming took possession of his monk- 
ish cell and dormitory. He ordered tea, and be¬ 
gan to feel at home. Berkley passed the even¬ 
ing with him. On going away, he said : — 

Good night ! I leave you to the care of the 


214 


HYPERION, 


Virgin and all the Saints. If the ghost of any 
old monk comes back after his prayer-book, my 
compliments to him. If I were a younger man, 
you certainly should see a ghost. Good night! ” 
When he had departed, Flemming opened the 
lattice of one of the windows. The moon had 
risen, and silvered the dark outline of the near¬ 
est hills ; while, afar off, the snowy summits of 
the Jungfrau and the Silver-Horn shone like a 
white cloud in the sky. Close beneath the win¬ 
dows was a flower-garden ; and the breath of the 
summer night came to him with dewy fragrance. 
There was a grateful seclusion about the place. 
He blessed the happy accident which gave him 
such a lodging, and fell asleep that night thinking 
of the nuns who once had slept in the same quiet 
cells ; but neither wimpled nun nor cowled monk 
appeared to him in his dreams ; — not even the 
face of Mary Ashburton ; nor did he hear her 
voice. 


A ROMANCE. 


215 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE EVENING AND THE MORNING STAR. 

Old Froissart tells us, in his Chronicles, that, 
when King Edward beheld the Countess of Sal¬ 
isbury at her castle-gate, he thought he had nev¬ 
er seen before so noble nor so fair a lady ; he 
was stricken thereupon to the heart with a spar¬ 
kle of fine love, that endured long after ; he 
thought no lady in the world so worthy to be be¬ 
loved as she. And so likewise thought Paul 
Flemming, when he beheld the English lady in 
the fair light of a summer morning. I will not 
disguise the truth. She is my heroine ; and I 
mean to describe her with great truth and beauty, 
so that all shall be in love with her, and I most 
of all. 

Mary Ashburton was in her twentieth summer. 
Like the fair maiden Amoret, she was sitting in. 
the lap of womanhood. They did her wrong,, 
who said she was not beautiful; and yet 


216 


HYPERION, 


“ She was not fair, 

Nor beautiful; — those words express her not. 

But, O, her looks had something excellent. 

That wants a name! ” 

Her face had a wonderful fascination in it. It 
•was such a calm, quiet face, with the light of the 
rising soul shining so peacefully through it. At 
times it wore an expression of seriousness, — of 
sorrow even ; and then seemed to make the very 
air bright with what the Italian poets so beautiful¬ 
ly call the lampeggiar delV angelico riso^ —the 
lightning of the angelic smile. 

And, O, those eyes, — those deep unutterable . 
eyes, with ‘‘ down-falling eyelids, full of dreams 
and slumber,” and within them a cold, living 
light, as in mountain lakes at evening, or in the 
iver of Paradise, for ever gliding, 

“With a brown, brown current. 

Under the shade perpetual, that never 
Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon.” 

I dislike an eye that twinkles like a star. 
Those only are beautiful, which, like the planets, 
have a steady, lambent light, — are luminous, 
but not sparkling. Such eyes the Greek poets 
.give to the Immortals. 

The lady’s figure was striking. Every step, 


A ROMANCE. 


217 


every attitude was graceful, and yet lofty, as if 
inspired by the soul within. Angels in the old 
poetic philosophy have such forms ; it was the 
soul itself imprinted on the air. And what a soul 
was hers ! A temple dedicated to Heaven, and, 
like the Pantheon at Rome, lighted only from 
above. And earthly passions in the form of gods 
were no longer there, but the sweet and thought¬ 
ful faces of Christ, and the Virgin Mary, and 
the Saints. Thus there was not one discordant 
thing in her ; but a perfect harmony of figure, 
and face, and soul, — in a word, of the whole be¬ 
ing. And he who had a soul to comprehend 
hers must of necessity love her, and, having 
once loved her, could love no other woman for 
evermore. 

No wonder, then, that Flemming felt his heart 
drawn towards her, as, in her morning walk, she 
passed him, sitting alone under the great walnut- 
trees near the cloister, and thinking of heaven, 
but not of her. She, too, was alone. Her 
cheek was no longer pale ; but glowing and 
bright, with the inspiration of the summer air. 
Flemming gazed after her, till she disappeared, 
even as a vision of his dreams, he knew not 
whither. He was not yet in love, but very near 


218 


HYPERION, 


it; for he thanked God that he had made such 
beautiful beings to walk the earth. 

Last night he had heard a voice to which his 
soul responded ; and he might have gone on his 
way, and taken no farther heed. But he would 
have heard that voice afterwards, whenever at 
evening he thought of this evening at Interlachen. 
To-day he had seen more clearly the vision, and 
his restless soul grew calm. The place seemed 
pleasant to him ; and he could not go. He did 
not ask himself whence came this calm. He felt 
it, and was happy in the feeling; and blessed 
the landscape and the summer morning, as if they 
possessed the wonder-working power. 

“ A pleasant morning-dream to you,” said a 
friendly voice ; and at the same moment some 
one laid his hand upon Flemming’s shoulder. It 
was Berkley. He had approached unseen and 
unheard. 

“ I see by the smile on your countenance,” he 
continued, “ that it is no day-incubus.” 

“You are right,” replied Flemming. “ It 
was a pleasant dream, which you have put to 
flight.” 

“ And I am glad to see that you have also 
put to flight the gloomy thoughts which used to 


A ROMANCE. 


219 


haunt you. I like to see people cheerful and 
happy. Why give way to sadness in this beau¬ 
tiful world ” 

“ Ah ! this beautiful world ! ” said Flemming, 
with a smile, Indeed, I know not what to 
think of it. Sometimes it is all gladness anc 
sunshine, and heaven itself lies not far off. And 
then it changes suddenly, and is dark and sor¬ 
rowful, and clouds shut out the sky. In the lives 
of the saddest of us, there are bright days like 
this, when we feel as if we could take the great 
world in our arms. Then come the gloomy 
hours, when the fire will neither burn on our 
hearths nor in our hearts ; and all without and 
within is dismal, cold, and dark. Believe me, 
every heart has its secret sorrows which the 
world knows not, and oftentimes we call a man 
cold, when he is only sad.” 

“And who says we do not.?” interrupted 
Berkley. “ Come, come ! Let us go to break¬ 
fast. The morning air has given me a rude ap¬ 
petite. I long to say grace over a fresh egg, 
and eat salt with my worst enemies ; namely, the 
Cockneys at the hotel. After breakfast you 
must give yourself up wholly to me. I shall 
take you to the Grindelwald ! ” 


220 


HYPERION, 


To-day, then, you do not breakfast like Di¬ 
ogenes, but consent to leave your tub.’’ 

“Yes, for the pleasure of your company. I 
shall also blow oiit the light in my lantern, hav 
ing found ;you.” 

“ Thank you.” 

The breakfast passed without any unusual oc¬ 
currence. Flemming watched the entrance of 
every guest; but she came not, — the guest he 
most desired to see. 

“ And now for the Grindelwald ! ” said Berk¬ 
ley. 

“ Why such haste ? We have the whole day 
before us. There is time enough.” 

“ Not a moment to lose, I assure you. The 
carriage is at the door.”. 

They drove up the valley of Lauterbrunnen, 
and turned eastward among the mountains of the 
Grindelwald. There they passed the day ; half- 
frozen by the icy breath of the Great Glacier, 
upon whose surface stand pyramids and blocks of 
ice, like the tombstones of a cemetery. It was 
a weary day to Flemming. He wished himself 
at Interlachen ; and was glad, when, towards 
evening, he saw once more the cone-roofed tow¬ 
ers of the cloister rising above the walnut-trees. 


A ROMANCE. 


221 


That ^V'eniilg: is Written in , red letters in his 
history. It gave hirii another revelation of the 
beauty and [exeellenco of Woman’s character and 
intellect; not wholly new to him, yet now re¬ 
newed and fortified. It was from the lips of Ma¬ 
ry Ashburton that the revelation came. Her 
form arose, like a tremulous evening-star, in the 
firmament of his soul. He conversed with her, 
and with her alone ; and knew not when to go. 
All others were to him as if they were not there. 
He saw their forms, but saw them as the forms 
of inanimate things. At length her mother came ; 
and Flemming beheld in her but another Mary 
Ashburton, with beauty more mature;—the 
same forehead and eyes, the same majestic fig¬ 
ure ; and, as yet, no trace of age. He gazed 
upon her with a feeling of delight, not unmingled 
with holy awe. She was to him the rich and 
glowing Evening, from whose bosom the tremu¬ 
lous star was born. 

Berkley took no active part in the conversa¬ 
tion, but did what was much more to the pur¬ 
pose,—that is to say,\ arranged a drive for the 
next day with the. Ashburtons, and of course in¬ 
vited Flemming, who went home that night with a 
halo round his head, and wondering much at a 


222 


HYPERION, 


dandy, who stood at the door of the hotel', and 
said to his companion, as Flemming passed : — 

“ What do you call this place ? I have been 
here two hours already, and find it devilish dull! ” 


A ROMANCE. 


223 


CHAPTER V. 

, A RAINY DAY. 

When Flemming awoke the next morning, he 
saw the sky dark and lowering. From the moun¬ 
tain-tops hung a curtain of mist, whose heavy 
folds waved to and fro in the valley below. 
Over all the landscape the soft summer rain was 
falling. No admiring eyes would look up that 
day at the Staubbach. 

A rainy day in Switzerland puts a sudden stop 
to many diversions. The coachman may drive 
to the inn, and then back to the stable ; but no 
farther. The sunburnt guide may sit at the ale¬ 
house door, and welcome ; and the boatman whis¬ 
tle and curse the clouds, at his own sweet will;— 
but no foot stirs abroad for all that; no traveller 
moves, if he has time to stay. The rainy day 
gives him time for reflection. He has leisure 
now to take cognizance of his impressions, and 


224 


HYPERION 


make up his account with the mountains. He 
remembers, too, that he has friends at home ; 
and writes up the journal, neglected for a week 
or more, and letters neglected longer ; or finish¬ 
es the rough pencil-sketch, begun yesterday in 
the open air. On the whole, he is not sorry it 
rains, — though disappointed. 

Flemming was both sorry and disappointed ; 
but he did not on that account fail to go over to 
the Ashburtons at the appointed hour. He found 
them sitting in the parlour. The mother was 
reading, and the daughter retouching a sketch 
of the Lake of Thun. After the usual saluta¬ 
tions, Flemming seated himself near the daugh 
ter, and said : — 

“We shall have no Staubbach to-day, I pre¬ 
sume ; only this Giessbach from the clouds.” 

“Nothing more, I suppose. So we must be 
content to stay in-doors, and listen to the sound 
of the eaves-dropping rain. It gives me time to 
finish some of these rough sketches.” 

“ It is a pleasant pastime,” said Flemming ; 
“ and I perceive you are very skilful. I am de¬ 
lighted to see that you can draw a straight line. 
I never before saw a lady’s sketch-book in which 
all the towers did not resemble the Leaning Tow- 


A ROMANCE. 


225 


er of Pisa. I always tremble for the little men 
under them.” 

“ How absurd ! ” exclaimed Mary Ashburton, 
with a smile that passed through the misty air of 
Flemming’s thoughts like a sunbeam. “For one, 
I succeed much better in straight lines than in any 
others. Here I have been trying a half-hour to 
make this water-wheel round ; and round it nev¬ 
er will be.” 

“ Then let it remain as it is. It looks uncom¬ 
monly picturesque, and may pass for a new in¬ 
vention.” 

The lady continued to sketch, and Flemming 
to gaze at her beautiful face ; often repeating to 
himself those lines in Marlow’s Faust: — 

“ O, thou art fairer than the evening air, 

Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars! ” 

He certainly Avould have betrayed himself to 
the maternal eye of Mrs. Ashburton, had she not 
been wholly absorbed in the follies of a fashion¬ 
able novel. Ere long, the fair sketcher had paused 
for a moment; and Flemming had taken her sketch¬ 
book in his hands and was looking it through from 
the beginning with ever-increasing delight, half of 
which he dared not express, though he favored her 
with some comments and bursts of admiration. 


15 


226 


HYPERION. 


“ This is truly a very beautiful sketch of 
Murten and the battle-field ! How quietly the 
landscape sleeps there by the lake, after the bat¬ 
tle ! Did you ever read the ballad of Veit We¬ 
ber, the shoemaker, on this subject ? He says, 
the routed Burgundians jumped into the lake, 
and the Swiss Leaguers shot them down like wild 
ducks among the reeds. He fought in the battle, 
and wrote the ballad afterwards ; — 

‘ He had himself laid hand on sword, 

He who this rhyme did write j 
* Till evening mowed he with the sword, 

And sang the song at night.’ ” 

“ You must give me the whole ballad,” said 
Miss Ashburton ; “it will serve to illustrate the 
sketch.” 

“ And the sketch to illustrate the ballad. 
And now we suddenly slide down the Alps into 
Italy, and are even in Rome, if I mistake not. 
This is surely a head of Homer ? ” 

“Yes,” replied the lady, with a little enthusi¬ 
asm. “ Do you not remember the marble bust 
at Rome ? When I first beheld that bust, it ab¬ 
solutely inspired me with awe. It is not the face 
of a man, but of a god ! ” 

“ And you have done it no injustice in your 


A ROMANCE. 


227 


copy,” said Flemming, catching a new enthusi¬ 
asm from hers. “With what a classic grace the 
fillet, passing round the majestic forehead, con¬ 
fines his flowing locks, which mingle with his 
beard ! The countenance, too, is calm, majes¬ 
tic, godlike ! Even the fixed and sightless eye¬ 
balls do not mar the image of the seer! Such 
were the sightless eyes of the blind old man of 
Chios. They seem to look with mournful solem¬ 
nity into the mysterious future ; and the marble 
lips to repeat that prophetic passage in the Hymn 
to Apollo : — ‘Let me also hope to be remember¬ 
ed in ages to come. And when any one, born of 
the tribes of men, comes hither, a weary travel¬ 
ler, and inquires, who is the sweetest of the 
singing-men that resort to your feasts, and whom 
you most delight to hear, do you make answer 
for me : It is the Blind Man who dwells in 
Chios ; his songs excel all that can ever be 
sung! ’ But do you really believe that this is 
a portrait of Homer ? ” 

“ Certainly not ! It is only an artist’s dream. 
It was thus that Homer appeared to him in his 
visions of the antique world. Every one, you 
know, forms an image in his fancy of persons 
and things he has never seen ; and the artist re¬ 
produces them in marble or on canvass.” 


228 


HYPERION, 


‘‘ And what is the image in your fancy ? Is it 
like this ? ” 

“ No ; not entirely. I have drawn my impres¬ 
sions from another source. Whenever I think of 
Homer, which is not often, he walks before me, 
solemn and serene, as in the vision of the great 
Italian ; in countenance neither sorrowful nor 
glad, followed by other bards, and holding in his 
right hand a sword ! ” 

“ That is a finer conception than this,” 
said Flemming. “ And I perceive from your 
words, as well as from this book, that you have a 
true feeling for Art, and understand what it is. 
You have had bright glimpses into the enchanted 
land.” 

“ I trust,” replied the lady, modestly, “ that I 
am not wholly without this feeling. Certainly I 
have as strong and passionate a love of Art as of 
Nature.” 

“ But does it not often offend you to hear peo¬ 
ple speaking of Art and Nature as opposite and 
discordant things } Surely nothing can be more 
false. Nature is a revelation of God ; Art a rev¬ 
elation of man. Indeed, Art signifies no more 
than this. Art is Power. That is the original 
meaning of the word. It is the creative power 


A ROMANCE. 


229 


by which the soul of man makes itself known, 
through some external manifestation or outward 
sign. As we can always hear the voice of God, 
walking in the garden, in the cool of the day, or 
under the star-light, where, to quote one of this 
poet’s verses, ‘ high prospects and the brows of 
all steep hills and pinnacles thrust up themselves 
for shows, ’ — so under the twilight and the star- 
light^of past ages, do w^e hear the voice of man, 
walking amid the w^orks of his hands, and city 
walls and towers, and the spires of churches, 
thrust up themselves for shows.” 

The lady smiled at his warmth ; and he con¬ 
tinued : — 

“ This, however, is but a similitude ; and Art 
and Nature are more nearly allied than by simili¬ 
tudes only. Art is the revelation of man ; and 
not merely that, but likewise the revelation of Na¬ 
ture, speaking through man. Art preexists in 
Nature, and Nature is reproduced in Art. As 
vapors from the ocean, floating landward and dis¬ 
solved in rain, are carried back in rivers to the 
ocean, so thoughts and the semblances of things 
that fall upon the soul of man in showers flow out 
again in living streams of Art, and lose them¬ 
selves in the great ocean, which is Nature. Art 


230 


HYPERION, 


and Nature are not, then, discordant, but ever 
harmoniously working in each other.” 

Enthusiasm begets enthusiasm. Flemming 
spake with such evident interest in the subject, 
ihat Miss Ashburton did not fail to manifest some 
interest in what he said ; and encouraged by this, 
he proceeded: — 

“ Thus in this wondrous world wherein we 
live, which is the World of Nature, man. has 
made unto himself another world hardly less won¬ 
drous, which is the World of Art. And it lies 
\nfolded and compassed about by the other, 

‘And the clear region where was born 
Round in itself incloses.* 

Taking this view of Art, I think we understand 
more easily the skill of the artist, and the differ¬ 
ence between him and the mere amateur. What 
we call miracles and wonders of Art are not so to 
him who created them ; for they were created 
by the natural movements of his own great soul. 
Statues, paintings, churches, poems, are but 
shadows of himself; — shadows in marble, col¬ 
ors, stone, words. He feels and recognizes their 
beauty ; but he thought these thoughts and pro¬ 
duced these things as easily as inferior minds do 
thoughts and things inferior ; perhaps more easi- 


A ROMANCE. 


231 


ly. Vague images and shapes of beauty floating 
through the soul, the semblances of things as yet 
indefinite or ill-defined, and perfect only when 
put in Art,—this Possible Intellect, as the Scho¬ 
lastic Philosophers have termed it, — the artist 
shares in common with us all. The lovers of 
Art are many. But the Active Intellect, the cre¬ 
ative power, — the power to put these shapes 
and images in Art, to imbody the indefinite, and 
render perfect, — is his alone. He shares the gift 
with few. He knows not even whence nor how 
this is. He knows only that it is*; that God has 
given him the power, which has been denied to 
others.” 

“ I should have known you were just from 
Germany,” said the lady, with a smile, ‘‘ even if 
you had not told me so. You are an enthusiast 
for the Germans. For my part, I cannot endure 
their harsh language.” 

“You would like it better, if you knew it bet¬ 
ter,” answered Flemming. “It is not harsh to 
me; but homelike, hearty, and full of feeling, — 
like the sound of happy voices at a fireside, of a 
winter’s night, when the wind blows, and the fire 
crackles, and hisses, and snaps. I do indeed 
love the Germans ; the men are so hale and hear¬ 
ty, and the Frauleins so tender and true ! ” 


232 


HYPERION, 


‘‘ I always think of men with pipes and beer, 
and women with knitting-work.’’ 

O, those are English prejudices ! ” exclaimed 
Flemming. “ Nothing can be more-” 

‘‘And their very literature presents itself to 
my imagination under the same forms.” 

“ I see you have read only English criticisms ; 
and have an idea, that all German books smell, 
as one of your English critics says, ‘ of grocer¬ 
ies, of brown papers filled with greasy cakes and 
slices of bacon, and of fryings in frouzy back- 
parlours ’; and this shuts you out from a glorious 
world of poetry, romance, and dreams ! ” 

Mary Ashburton smiled, and Flemming con¬ 
tinued to turn over the leaves of the sketch-book, 
with an occasional criticism and witticism. At 
length he came to a leaf which was written in 
pencil. People of a lively imagination are gen¬ 
erally curious, and always so when a little in 
love. 

“ Here is a pencil-sketch,” said he, with an 
entreating look, “ which I would fain examine 
with the rest.” 

“ You may do so, if you wish ; but you will 
find it the poorest sketch in the book. I was 
trying one day to draw the picture of an artist’s 



A ROMANCE. 


233 


life in Rome, as it presented itself to my imagi¬ 
nation ; and this is the result. Perhaps it may 
awaken some pleasant recollection in your mind.” 

Flemming waited no longer ; but read with the 
eyes of a lover, not of a critic, the following de¬ 
scription, which inspired him with a new enthusi¬ 
asm for Art, and for Mary Ashburton. 

“ I often reflect with delight upon the young 
artist’s life in Rome. A stranger from the cold 
and gloomy North, he has crossed the Alps, and 
with the devotion of a pilgrim journeyed to the 
Eternal City. He dwells, perhaps, upon the Pin- 
cian Hill ; and hardly a house there, which is 
not inhabited by artists from foreign lands. The 
very room he lives in has been their abode 
time out of mind. Their names are written all 
over the walls ; perhaps some further record of 
them is left in a rough sketch upon the window- 
shutter, with an inscription and a date. These 
things consecrate the place, in his imagination. 
Even these names, though unknown to him, are 
not without associations in his mind. 

In that warm latitude he rises with the day. 
The night-vapors are already rolling away over 
the Campagna seaward. As he looks from his 
window, above and beyond their white folds he 


234 


HYPERION. 


recognizes the tremulous blue sea at Ostia. Over 
Soracte rises the sun, — over his own beloved 
mountain ; though no longer worshipped there, as 
of old. Before him, the antique house of Claude 
Lorraine casts its long brown shadow down into 
the heart of modern Rome. The city lies 
still asleep and silent. But above its dark roofs, 
more than two hundred steeples catch the sunshine 
on their gilded weathercocks. Presently the 
bells begin to ring, and, as the artist listens to 
their pleasant chimes, he knows that in each of 
those churches, over the high altar, hangs a paint¬ 
ing by some great master’s hand, whose beauty 
comes between him and heaven, so that he can¬ 
not pray, but wonder only. 

“ Among these works of art he passes the day ; 
but oftenest in St. Peter’s and the Vatican. Up 
the vast marble staircase, — through the Corri¬ 
dor Chiaramonti,— through vestibules, galleries, 
chambers, — he passes, as in a dream. All are 
filled with busts and statues, or painted in daring 
frescoes. What forms of strength and beauty ! 
what glorious creations of the human mind ! and 
in that last chamber of all, standing alone upon 
his pedestal, the Apollo found at Actium, — in 
such a majestic attitude, — with such a noble 
countenance, life-like, god-like ! 


A ROMANCE. 


235 


‘‘ Or perhaps he passes into the chambers of 
the painters ; hut goes no further than the second. 
For in the middle of that chamber a large paint¬ 
ing stands upon the heavy easel, as if unfinished : 
though more than three hundred years ago the 
great artist completed it, and then laid his pencil 
away for ever, leaving this last benediction to the 
world. It is the Transfiguration of Christ, by Ra¬ 
phael. A child looks not at the stars with great¬ 
er wonder than the artist at this painting. He 
knows how many studious years are in that pic¬ 
ture. He knows the difficult path that leads to 
perfection, having himself taken some of the first 
steps. Thus he recalls the hour, when that 
broad canvass was first stretched upon its frame, 
and Raphael stood before it, and laid the first col 
ors upon it, and beheld the figures one by one born 
into life, and ‘ looked upon the work of his own 
hands with a smile, that it should have succeeded 
so well.’ He recalls, too, the hour, when, the 
task accomplished, the pencil dropped from the 
master’s dying hand, and his eyes closed to open 
on a more glorious transfiguration, and at length 
the dead Raphael lay in his own studio, before 
this wonderful painting, more glorious than any 
conqueror under the banners and armorial hatch¬ 
ments of his funeral ! 


236 


HYPERION, 


“ Think you that such sights and thoughts as 
these do not move the heart of a young man and 
an artist ? And when he goes forth into the open 
air, the sun is going down, and the gray ruins of 
an antique world receive him. From the Palace 
of the Caesars he looks down into the Forum, or 
towards the Coliseum ; or westward sees the last 
sunshine strike the bronze Archangel which 
stands upon the Tomb of Adrian. He walks 
amid a world of Art in ruins. The very street- 
lamps, that light him homeward, burn before 
some painted or sculptured image of the Madon¬ 
na ! What wonder is it, if dreams visit him in 
his sleep, — nay, if his whole life seem to him a 
dream } What wonder, if, with a feverish heart 
and quick hand, he strive to reproduce those 
dreams in marble or on canvass } ” 

Foolish Paul Flemming ! who both admired 
and praised this little sketch, and yet was too 
blind to see that it was written from the heart, 
and not from the imagination ! Foolish Paul 
Flemming! who thought that a girl of twenty could 
write thus without a reason ! Close upon this 
followed another pencil sketch, which he likewise 
read, with her permission. It was this. 

The whole period of the Middle Ages seems 


A ROMANCE. 


237 


very strange to me. At times I cannot persuade 
myself that such things could have been as his¬ 
tory tells us ; that such a strange world was a 
part of our world, — that such a strange life was 
a part of the life which seems to us, who are 
living it now, so passionless and commonplace. 
It is only when I stand amid ruined castles, that 
look at me so mournfully, and behold the heavy 
armor of old knights, hanging upon the wainscot 
of Gothic chambers ; or when I walk amid the 
aisles of. some dusky minster, whose walls are 
narrative of hoar antiquity, and whose very bells 
have been baptized, and see the carved oaken 
stalls in the choir, where so many generations of 
monks have sat and sung, and the tombs, where 
now they sleep in silence, to awake no more to 
their midnight psalms ; — it is only at such times 
that the history of the Middle Ages is a reality 
to me, and not a passage in romance. 

“ Likewise the illuminated manuscripts of those 
ages have something of this power of making the 
dead Past a living Present in my mind. What 
curious figures are emblazoned on the creaking 
parchment, making its yellow leaves laugh with 
gay colors ! You seem to come upon them un¬ 
awares. Their faces have an expression of won- 


238 


HYPERION, 


der. They seem all to be just startled from their 
sleep by the sound you made when you unloosed 
the brazen clasps, and opened the curiously carved 
oaken covers, that turn on hinges, like the great 
gates of a city. To the building of that city some 
diligent monk gave the whole of a long life. 
With what strange denizens he peopled it! Ad¬ 
am and Eve standing under a tree, with apples 
in their hands;—the patriarch Abraham, with 
a tree growing out of his body, and his descend¬ 
ants sitting like owls upon its branches ; — la¬ 
dies with flowing locks of gold ; knights in ar¬ 
mor, with most fantastic, long-toed shoes ; jousts 
and tournaments ; and Minnesingers, and lovers 
whose heads reach to the towers where their la¬ 
dies sit ; — and all so angular, so naive, so 
childlike, — all in such simple attitudes, with such 
great eyes, and holding up such long, lank fin¬ 
gers ! — These things are characteristic of the 
Middle Ages, and persuade me of the truth of 
history.” 

At this moment Berkley entered, with a Swiss 
cottage, which he had bought as a present for 
somebody’s child in England ; and a cane with a 
chamois-horn on the end of it, which he had 
bought as a present for himself. This was the 


A ROMANCE. 


239 


first time that Flemming had been sorry to see the 
good-natured man, whose presence now interrupt 
ed the delightful conversation he was carrying on 
‘‘under four eyes” with Mary Ashburton. He 
really thought him tedious, and wondered it had 
never occurred to him before. Mrs. Ashburton, 
too, must needs lay down her book ; and the con¬ 
versation became general. Strange to say, the 
Swiss dinner-hour, of one o’clock, did not come a 
moment too soon for Flemming. It did not even 
occur to him that it was early ; for he was seated 
beside Mary Ashburton; and at dinner one can 
say so much, without being overheard. 


240 


HYPERION, 


CHAPTER VI. 

AFTER DINNER, AND AFTER THE MANNER OF 
THE BEST CRITICS. 

When the learned Thomas Diafoirus wooed 
the fair Angelique, he drew from his pocket a 
medical thesis, and presented it to her, as the 
first-fruits of his genius ; and, at the same time, 
invited her, with her father’s permission, to attend 
the dissection of a woman, upon whom he was to 
lecture. Paul Flemming did nearly the same 
thing ; and so often, that it had become a habit. 
He was continually drawing from his pocket or 
his memory some scrap of song or story ; and 
inviting some fair Angelique, either with her fa¬ 
ther’s permission or without, to attend the dissec¬ 
tion of an author upon whom he was to lecture. 
He soon gave proofs of this to Mary Ashburton. 

What books have we here for afternoon 
reading } ” said Flemming, taking a volume from 


A ROMANCE. 


24 ) 

the table, when they had returned from the din¬ 
ing-room. ‘‘ O, it is Uhland’s Poems. Have 
you read any thing of his ? He and Tieck are 
generally considered the best living poets of Ger¬ 
many. They dispute the palm of superiority. 
Let me give you a lesson in German, this after¬ 
noon, Miss Ashburton; so that no one may ac¬ 
cuse you of ‘ omitting the sweet benefit of time, 
to clothe your age with angel-like perfection.’ J 
have opened at random upon the ballad of the 
Black Knight. Do you repeat the German after 
me, and I will translate to you. Pfingsten war, 
das Fest der Freude ! ” 

“ I should never persuade my unwilling lips to 
pronounce such sounds. So I beg you not to 
perplex me with your German, but read me the 
ballad in English.” 

“ Well, then, listen. I will improvise a trans¬ 
lation for your own particular benefit. 

“ ’T was Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness, 

When woods and fields put off all sadness. 

Thus began the king, and spake : 

‘ So from the halls 
Of ancient Hofburg’s walls 
A luxuriant spring shall break.’ 

“ Drums and trumpets echo loudly. 

Wave the crimson banners proudly. 

16 


242 


HYPERIOPh, 

From balcony the king looked on • 

In the play of spears, 

Fell all the cavaliers 

Before the monarch’s stalwart son. 

“ To the barrier of the fight 
Rode at last a sable knight. 

‘ Sir Knight! your name and scutcheon? s.iy 
‘ Should I speak it here, 

Ye would stand aghast with fear; 

I’m a prince of mighty sway ' ’ 

“ When he rode into the lists. 

The arch of heaven grew black with mists, 
And the castle ’gan to rock. 

At the first blow. 

Fell the youth from saddle-bow,— 

Hardly rises from the shock. 

“ Pipe and viol call the dances. 

Torchlight through the high halls glances, 
Waves a mighty shadow in ; 

With manner bland 
Doth ask the maiden’s hand. 

Doth with her the dance begin : 


“ Danced in sable iron sark. 

Danced a measure weird and dark, 
Coldly clasped her limbs around. 
From breast and hair 
Down fall from her the fair 
Flowerets, faded, to the ground 


“ To the sumptuous banquet came 
Every knight and every dame. 


A ROMANCE. 


243 


’Twixt son and daughter all distraught, 

With mournful mind 
The ancient king reclined, 

Gazed at them in silent thought. 

“ Pale the children both did look. 

But the guest a beaker took: 

‘ Golden wine will make you whole! * 

The children drank. 

Gave many a courteous thank: 

‘ O, that draught was very cool! ’ 

“ Each the father’s breast embraces. 

Son and daughter; and their faces 
Colorless grow utterly. 

Whichever way 

Looks the fear-struck father gray. 

He beholds his children die. 

“ ‘ Woe ! the blessed children both 
Takest thou in the joy of youth; 

Take me, too, the joyless father 1 ’ 

Spake the grim guest. 

From his hollow, cavernous breast: 

< Roses in the spring I gather ! ’ ” 

“ That is indeed a striking ballad ! ” said Miss 
Ashburton, “ but rather too grim and ghostly for 
this dull afternoon.” 

“ It begins joyously enough with the feast of 
Pentecost, and the crimson banners at the old 
castle. Then the contrast is well managed. The 


244 


HYPERION, 


knight in black mail, and the waving in of the 
mighty shadow in the dance, and the dropping of 
the faded flowers, are all strikingly presented to 
the imagination. However, it tells its own story, 
and needs no explanation. Here is something 
in a different vein, though still melancholy. The 
Castle by the Sea. Shall I read it ” 

“ Yes, if you like.’’ 

Flemming read : — 

“ ‘ Hast thou seen that lordly castle, 

That castle by the sea ? 

Golden and red above it 
The clouds float gorgeously. 

“ ‘ And fain it would stoop downward 
To the mirrored wave below; 

And fain it would soar upward 
In the evening’s crimson glow.’ 

“ * Well have I seen that castle, 

That castle by the sea. 

And the moon above it standing, 

And the mist rise solemnly.’ 

“ ‘ The winds and the waves of ocean, 

Had they a merry chime ? 

Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers, 

The harp and the minstrel’s rhyme ? ’ 

“ * The winds and the waves of ocean. 

They rested quietly; 


A ROMANCE. 


245 


But I heard on the gale a sound of wail, 
And tears came to mine eye.’ 

“ ‘ And sawest thou on the turrets 
The king and his royal bride, 

And the wave of their crimson mantles. 
And the golden crown of pride ? 

“ ‘ Led they not forth, in rapture, 

A beauteous maiden there. 

Resplendent as the morning sun. 

Beaming with golden hair ? ’ 

“ ‘ Well saw I the ancient parents. 

Without the crown of pride ; 

They were moving slow, in weeds of woe; 
No maiden was by their side ! * 


‘‘ How do you like that } ” 

“ It is very graceful, and pretty. But Uhland 
seems to leave a great deal to his reader’s imagi¬ 
nation. All his readers should be poets them¬ 
selves, or they will hardly comprehend him. I 
confess, I hardly understand the passage where 
he speaks of the castle’s stooping downward to 
the mirrored wave below, and then soaring up¬ 
ward into the gleaming sky. I suppose, however, 
he wishes to express the momentary illusion we 
experience when beholding a perfect reflection of 
an old tower in the sea. We look at it as if it 


246 


HYPERION 


were not a mere shadow in the water ; and yet 
the real tower rises far above, and seems to float 
in the crimson evening clouds. Is that the mean¬ 
ing ? ” 

“ I should think it was. To me it is all a 
beautiful cloud landscape, which I comprehend 
and feel, and yet should find some difficulty per¬ 
haps in explaining.” 

“ And why need one always explain ? Some 
feelings are quite untranslatable. No language 
has yet been found for them. They gleam upon 
us beautifully through the dim twilight of fancy, 
and yet, when we bring them close to us, and 
hold them up to the light of reason, lose their 
beauty, all at once ; as glowworms, which gleam 
with such a spiritual light in the shadows of 
evening, when brought in where the candles are 
lighted, are found to be only worms, like so 
many others.” 

“ Very true. We ought sometimes to be con¬ 
tent with feeling. Here, now, is an exquisite 
piece, which soothes one like the fall of evening 
shadows, — like the dewy coolness of twilight af¬ 
ter a sultry day. I shall not give you a bald 
translation of my own, because I have laid up in 
my memory another, which, though not very lit- 


A ROMANCE. 


247 


eral, equals the original in beauty. Observe how 
finely it commences. 

“ Many a year is in its grave, 

Since I crossed this restless wave; 

And the evening, fair as ever. 

Shines on ruin, rock, and river. 

“ Then, in this same boat, beside. 

Sat two comrades old and tried; 

One with all a father’s truth. 

One with all the fire of youth. 

“ One on earth in silence wrought. 

And his grave in silence sought; 

But the younger, brighter form 
Passed in battle and in storm. 

“ So, whene’er I turn my eye 
Back upon the days gone by. 

Saddening thoughts of friends come o’er me, - 
Friends, who closed their course before me. 

“ Yet what binds us, friend to friend. 

But that soul with soul can blend ? 

Soul-like were those hours of yore; 

Let us walk in soul once more ! 

“ Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee ; 

Take, — I give it willingly; 

Fo>, invisible to thee. 

Spirits twain have crossed with me ! ” 

O, that is beautiful, — ‘ beautiful exceeding¬ 
ly ! ’ Who translated it ? 


248 


HYPERION, 


1 do not know. I wish I could find him out. 
It is certainly admirably done ; though in the 
measure of the original there is something like 
the rocking motion of a boat, which is not pre- 
rserved in the translation.” 

“ And is Uhland always so soothing and spir- 
iitual.? ” 

“ Yes, he generally looks into the spirit-world. 
I am now trying to find here a little poem on the 
Death of a Country Clergyman, in which he in¬ 
troduces a striking picture. But I cannot turn to 
it. No matter. He describes th^ spirit of the 
good old man, returning to earth on a bright sum¬ 
mer morning, and standing amid the golden corn 
and the red and blue flowers, and mildly greeting 
the reapers as of old. But there is nothing mor¬ 
bid in Uhland’s mind. He is always fresh and 
invigorating, like a breezy morning. In this he 
differs entirely from such writers as Salis and 
Matthisson.” 

“And who are they } ” 

“ Two melancholy gentlemen to whom life was 
only a Dismal Swamp, upon whose margin they 
walked with cambric handkerchiefs in their hands, 
sobbing and sighing, and making signals to Death 
(to come and ferry them over the lake. And now 


A ROMANCE. 


249 


their spirits stand in the green fields of German 
song like two weeping-willows bending over a 
grave. To read their poems is like wandering 
through a village church-yard on a summer even¬ 
ing, reading the inscriptions upon the grave-stones, 
and recalling sweet images of the departed ; 
while above you, 

‘ Hark ! in the holy grove of palms, 

Where the stream of life runs free, 

Echoes, in the angels’ psalms, 

“ Sister spirit! hail to thee! ” ” 

‘‘ How musically those lines flow ! Are they 
Matthisson’s ^ ” 

“ Yes ; and they do indeed flow musically. I 
wish T had his poems here. I should like to read 
to you his Elegy on the Ruins of an Ancient 
Castle. It is an imitation of Gray’s Elegy. You 
have been at Baden-Baden ^ 

“ Yes ; last summer.” 

“ And have not forgotten-” 

“ The old castle ? Of course not. What a 
magnificent ruin it is ! ” 

“ That is the scene of Matthisson’s poem, and 
seems to have filled the melancholy bard with 
more than wonted inspiration.” 

“ I should like very much to see the poem, — 
I remember that old ruin with so much delight. * 


250 


HYPERION, 


“ I am sorry I have not a translation of it for 
you. Instead of it, I will give you a sweet and 
mournful poem from Salis. It is called The Song 
of the Silent Land. 

“ Into the Silent Land ! 

Ah ! who shall lead us thither ? 

Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, 

And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. 

Who leads us with a gentle hand 
Thither, O, thither. 

Into the Silent Land ? 

“Into the Silent Land ! 

To you, ye boundless regions 

Of all perfection ! Tender morning-visions 

Of beauteous souls! The Future’s pledge and band ! 

Who in Life’s battle firm doth stand 

Shall bear Hope’s tender blossoms 

Into the Silent Land ! 

“ O Land ! O Land ' 

For all the broken-hearted 

The mildest herald by our fate allotted 

Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand 

To lead us with a gentle hand 

Into the land of the great departed. 

Into the Silent Land ! 

Is not that a beautiful poem ? ” 

Mary Ashburton made no answer. She had 
turned away to hide her tears. Flemming won- 


A ROMANCE. 


251 


clered that Berkley could say she was not beauti¬ 
ful. Still he was rather pleased than offended at 
it. He felt at that moment how sweet a thing it 
would be to possess one who should seem beau¬ 
tiful to him alone, and yet to him be more beau¬ 
tiful than all the world beside ! How bright the 
world became to him at that thought! It was 
like one of those paintings in which all the light 
streams from the face of the Virgin. O, there is 
nothing holier, in this life of ours, than the first 
consciousness of love, — the first fluttering of its 
silken wings ; the first rising sound and breath of 
that wind which is so soon to sweep through the 
soul, to purify or to destroy! 

Old histories tell us that the great Emperor 
Charlemagne stamped his edicts with the hilt of 
his sword. The greater emperor. Death, stamps 
his with the blade ; and they are signed and ex¬ 
ecuted with the same stroke. Flemming received 
that night a letter from Heidelberg, which told 
him that Emma of Ilmenau was dead. The 
fate of this poor, girl affected him deeply ; and he 
said in his heart : — 

“ Father in heaven ! Why was the lot of 
this weak and erring child so hard ? What had 
she done, to be so tempted in her weakness, and 


252 


HYPERION, 


perish ? Why didst thou suffer her gentle affec¬ 
tions to lead her thus astray ? ’’ 

And, through the silence of the awful midnight, 
the voice of an avalanche answered from the dis¬ 
tant mountains, and seemed to say : — 

“ Peace ! peace ! Why dost thou question 
God’s providence ? ” 


A ROMANCE. 


253 


CHAPTER VII. 

TAKE CARE ! 

Fair is the valley of Lauterbrunnen, with its 
green meadows and overhanging cliffs. The ru¬ 
ined castle of Unspunnen stands like an armed 
warder at the gate of the enchanted land. In 
calm serenity the snowy mountains rise beyond. 
Fairer than the Rock of Balmarusa, yon frowning 
precipice looks down upon us ; and, from the 
topmost cliff, the white pennon of the Brook of 
Dust shimmers and waves in the sunny air ! 

It was a bright, beautiful morning after night- 
rain. Every dew-drop and rain-drop had a whole 
heaven within it; and so had the heart of Paul 
Flemming, as, with Mrs. Ashburton and her 
dark-eyed daughter, he drove up the Valley of 
Lauterbrunnen, — the Valley of Fountains-Only. 

‘‘ How beautiful the Jungfrau looks this morn¬ 
ing ! ’’ exclaimed he, looking at Mary Ashburton. 


254 


HYPERION, 


She thought he meant the mountain, and assent¬ 
ed. But he meant her likewise. 

“ And the mountains beyond,” he continued ; 

the Monk and the Silver-horn, the Wetter-horn, 
the Schreck-horn, and the Schwarz-horn, — all 
those sublime apostles of Nature, whose sermons 
are avalanches ! Did you ever behold any thing 
more grand } ” 

“ O, yes ! Mont Blanc is more grand, when 
you behold it from the hills opposite. It was 
there that I was most moved by the magnificence 
of Swiss scenery. It was a morning like this ; 
and the clouds, that were hovering about on their 
huge, shadowy wings, made the scene only the 
more magnificent. Before me lay the whole pan¬ 
orama of the Alps ; pine forests standing dark 
and solemn at the base of the mountains ; and 
half-way up a veil of mist ; above which rose the 
snowy summits and sharp needles of rock, which 
seemed to float in the air, like a fairy world. 
Then the glaciers stood on either side, wdnding 
down through the mountain ravines ; and, high 
above all, rose the white, dome-like summit of 
Mont Blanc. And ever and anon from the 
shroud of mist came the awful sound of an ava¬ 
lanche, and a continual roar, as of the wind 


A ROMANCE. 


255 


through a forest of pines, filled the air. It was 
the roar of the Arve and Aveiron, breaking from 
their icy fountains. Then the mists began to 
pass away ; and it seemed as if the whole firma¬ 
ment were rolling together. It recalled to my 
mind that sublime passage in the Apocalypse: — 
‘ I saw a great white throne; and him that sat 
thereon; before whose face the heavens and the 
earth fled away, and found no place ! ’ I can¬ 
not believe that upon this earth there is a more 
magnificent scene ! ” 

“ It muL,t be grand, indeed,” replied Flem¬ 
ming. “ And those mighty glaciers, — huge 
monsters with bristling crests, creeping down into 
the valley ! for it is said they really move.” 

Yes ; it filled me with a strange sensation of 
awe to think of this. They seemed to me like 
the dragons of Northern Romance, which come 
down from the mountains and devour whole vil¬ 
lages. A little hamlet in Chamouni was once 
abandoned by its inhabitants, terrified at the ap¬ 
proach of the icy dragon. But is it possible you 
have never been at Chamouni ? ” 

“Never. The great marvel still remains un¬ 
seen by me.” 

“ Then how can you linger here so long ? 
Were I in your place, I would not lose an hour.” 


256 


HYPERION, 


These words passed over the opening blossoms 
of hope in the soul of Flemming like a cold wind 
over the flowers in spring-time. He bore it as 
best he could, and changed the subject. 

I do not mean to describe the Valley of Lau- 
terbrunnen, nor the bright day passed there. I 
know that my gentle reader is blessed with the 
divine gift of a poetic fancy ; and can see already 
how the mountains rise, and the torrents fall, and 
the beautiful valley lies between ; and how, along 
the dusty road, the herdsman blows his horn, and 
travellers come and go in charabans, like Punch 
and Judy in a show-box. He knows already how 
romantic ladies sketch romantic scenes ; and how 
cold meat tastes under the shadow of trees ; and 
how time flies, when we are in love, and the be¬ 
loved one near. One little incident I must, how¬ 
ever, mention, lest his fancy should not suggest it. 

Flemming was still sitting with the ladies on 
the green slope near the Staubbach, or Brook of 
Dust, when a young man clad in green came 
down the valley. It was a German mechanic, 
with flaxen ringlets hanging over his shoulders, and 
a guitar in his hand. His step was free and elas¬ 
tic, and his countenance wore the joyous expres¬ 
sion of youth and health. He approached the 


A ROxMANCE. 


257 


company with a courteous salutation; and, after 
the manner of travelling apprentices, asked char¬ 
ity with the confident air of one unaccustomed to 
refusal. Nor was he refused in this instance. 
The presence of those we love makes us com¬ 
passionate and generous. Flemming gave him a 
piece of gold ; and, after a short conversation, 
he seated himself, at a little distance, on the grass, 
and began to play and sing. Wonderful and many 
were the soft accords and plaintive sounds that 
came from that little instrument, touched by the 
student’s hand. Every feeling of the human heart 
seemed to find an expression there, and awaken 
a kindred feeling in the hearts of those who heard 
him. He sang strange German songs, so full of 
longing, and of pleasing sadness, and hope, and 
fear, and passionate desire, and soul-subduing sor¬ 
row, that the tears came into Mary Ashburton’s 
eyes, though she understood not the words he 
sang. Then his countenance glowed with tri¬ 
umph, and he beat the strings like a drum, and 
sang ; — 

“ O, how the drum beats so loud ! 

Close beside me in the fight, 

My dying brothor says, Good Night! 

17 


258 


HYPERION, 


And the cannon’s awful breath 
Screams the loud halloo of Death ! 

And the drum, 

And the drum, 

Beats so loud ! ” 

Many were the words of praise, when the 
young musician ended ; and, as he rose to depart, 
they still entreated for one song more. Whereup¬ 
on he played a lively prelude ; and, looking full 
into Flemming’s face, sang, with a pleasant smile 
and still in German, this little song : — 

“ I know a maiden fair to see j 
Take care ! 

She can both false and friendly be. 

Beware! Beware ! 

Trust her not. 

She is fooling thee ! 

“ She has two eyes, so soft and brown; 

Take care ! 

She gives a side-glance and looks dowa. 

Beware I Beware! 

Trust her not. 

She is fooling thee ! 

“ And she has hair of a golden hue j 
Take care ! 

And what she says, it is not true. 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not. 

She is fooling thee ' 


A ROMANCE. 


259 


“ She has a bosom as white as snow; 

Take care ! 

She knows how much it is best to show. 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 

She is fooling thee ! 

“ She gives thee a garland woven fair; 

Take care ! 

It is a fool’s-cap for thee to wear. 

Beware! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 

She is fooling thee! ” 

% 

The ■ last stanza he sung in a laughing, trium¬ 
phant tone, which resounded above the loud clang 
of his guitar like the jeering laugh of Till ,£u- 
lenspiegel. Then, slinging his guitar over his 
shoulder, he took off his green cap, and made a 
leg to the ladies, in the style of Gil Bias ; waved 
his hand in the air, and walked quickly down the 
valley, singing, “ Ade ! Ade ! Ade ! ” 


260 


HYPERIOI«, 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION. 

The power of magic in the Middle Ages cre¬ 
ated monsters who followed the unhappy magi 
cian everywhere. The power of love in all 
ages creates angels, who likewise follow the happy 
or unhappy lover everywhere, even in his dreams. 
By such an angel was Paul Flemming now haunt¬ 
ed, both when he waked and when he slept. He 
walked as in a dream, and \vas hardly conscious 
of the presence of those around him. A sweet 
face looked at him from every page of every 
book he read ; and it was the face of Mary Ash¬ 
burton ! — a sweet voice spake to him in every 
sound he heard ; and it was the voice of Mary 
Ashburton ! Day and night succeeded each other, 
with pleasant interchange of light and darkness ; 
but to him the passing of time was only as a dream. 
When he arose in the morning, he thought only 


A ROMANCE. 


261 


of her, and wondered if she were yet awake ; and 
when he lay down at night, he thought only of 
her, and how, like the Lady Christabel, 

“ Her gentle limbs she did undress, 

And lay down in her loveliness.” 

And the livelong day he was with her, either in 
reality or in day-dreams hardly less real; for, in 
each delirious vision of his waking hours, her 
beauteous form passed like the form of Beatrice 
through Dante’s heaven ; and, as he lay in the 
summer afternoon, and heard at times the sound 
of the wind in the trees, and the sound of Sabbath 
bells ascending up to heaven, holy wishes and 
prayers ascended with them from his inmost soul, 
beseeching that he might not love in vain ! And 
whenever, in silence and alone, he looked into 
the silent, lonely countenance of Night, he recall¬ 
ed the impassioned lines of Plato : — 

“ Lookest thou at the stars ? If I were heaven, 

With all the eyes of heaven would I look down on thee ! ” 

O, how beautiful it is to love ! Even thou, tha 
sneerest at this page, and laughest in cold indiffer¬ 
ence or scorn, if others are near thee, — thou, 
too, must acknowledge its truth, when thou art 
alone ; and confess that a foolish world is prone to 
laugh in public at what in private it reveres, as 


262 


HYPERION, 


one of the highest impulses of our nature, — 
namely. Love ! 

One by one the objects of our affection depart 
from us. But our affections remain, and like 
vines stretch forth their broken, wounded tendrils 
for support. The bleeding heart needs a balm 
to heal it ; and there is none but the love of its 
kind,—none but the affection of a human heart! 
Thus the wounded, broken affections of Flemming 
began to lift themselves from the dust and cling 
around this new object. Days and weeks pass¬ 
ed ; and, like the Student Crisostomo, he ceased 
to love, because he began to adore. And with 
this adoration mingled the prayer, that, in that hour 
when the world is still, and the voices that praise 
are mute, and reflection cometh like twilight, 
and the maiden, in her day-dreams. Counted the 
number of her friends, some voice in the sacred 
silence of her thoughts might whisper his name ! 

They were sitting together one morning, on 
the green, flowery meadow, under the ruins of 
Burg Unspunnen. She was sketching the ruins. 
The birds were singing, one and all, as if there 
were no aching hearts, no sin nor sorrow, in the 
world. So motionless was the bright air, that the 
shadow of the trees lay engraven on the grass. 


A ROMANCE. 


26J{ 

The distant snow-peaks sparkled in the sun, and 
nothing frowned, save the square tower of the old 
ruin above them. 

‘‘What a pity it is,’’ said the lady, as she 
stopped to rest her weary fingers, “ what a pity 
it is, that there is no old tradition connected with 
this ruin ! ” 

“ I will make you one, if you wish,” said 
Flemming. 

“Can you make old traditions } ” 

“ O, yes ! I made three, the other day, about 
the Rhine, and one very old one about the Black 
Forest. A lady with dishevelled hair ; a robber 
with a horrible slouched hat ; and a night storm 
among the roaring pines.” 

“ Delightful! Do make one for me.” 

“ With the greatest pleasure. Where will you 
have the scene ? Here, or in the Black For¬ 
est } ” 

“ In the Black Forest, by all means ! Begin.” 

“ I will unite this ruin and the forest together. 
But first promise not to interrupt me. If you 
snap the golden threads of thought, they will float 
away on the air like the film of the gossamer, and 
I shall never be able to recover them.” 

“ I promise.” 


264 


HYPERION. 


“ Listen, then, to the Tradition of ‘The 
Fountain of Oblivion.’ ” 

“ Begin.” 

Flemming was reclining on the flowery turf, at 
the lady’s feet, looking up with dreamy eyes into 
her sweet face, and then into the leaves of the 
linden-trees overhead. 

“ Gentle Lady! Dost thou remember the 
linden-trees of Biilach, — those tall and stately 
trees, with velvet down upon their shining leaves, 
and rustic benches underneath their overhanging 
eaves } A leafy dwelling, fit to be the home of elf 
or fairy, where first I told my love to thee, thou 
cold and stately Hermione ! A little peasant girl 
stood near, and listened all the while, with eyes of 
wonder and delight, and an unconscious smile, to 
hear the stranger still speak on in accents deep 
yet mild, — none else was with us in that hour, 
save God and that little child ! ” 

“ Why, it is in rhyme ! ” 

“ No, no ! the rhyme is only in your imagina¬ 
tion. You promised not to interrupt me, and 
you have already snapped asunder the gossamer 
threads of as sweet a dream as was ever spun from 
a poet’s brain.” 

“ It certainly did rhyme ! ” 


A ROMANCE. 


265 


“ This was the reverie of the Student Hierony¬ 
mus, as he sat at midnight in a chamber of this 
old tower, with his hands clasped together, and 
resting upon an open volume, which he should 
have been reading. His pale face was raised, 
and the pupils of his eyes dilated, as if the spirit- 
world were open before him, and some beau¬ 
teous vision were standing there, and drawing the 
student’s soul through his eyes up into heaven, — 
as the evening sun, through parting summer-clouds, 
seems to draw into its bosom the vapors of the 
earth. O, it w^as a lovely vision ! I can see it 
before me now! 

“ Near the student stood an antique bronze 
lamp, with strange figures carved upon it. It 
was a magic lamp, which once belonged to the 
Arabian astrologer El Geber, in Spain. Its light 
was beautiful as the light of stars; and, night 
after night, as the lonely wight sat alone and read 
in this lofty tower, through the mist, and mirk, 
and dropping rain, it streamed out into the dark¬ 
ness, and was seen by many wakeful eyes. To 
the poor Student Hieronymus it was a w^onderful 
Aladdin’s Lamp ; for in its flame a Divinity re¬ 
vealed herself unto him, and showed him treasures. 
Whenever he opened a ponderous, antiquated 


266 


HYPERION, 


tome, it seemed as if some angel opened for him 
the gates of Paradise ; and already he was known 
in the land as Hieronymus the Learned. 

“ But, alas ! he could read no more. The 
charm was broken. Hour after hour he passed 
with his hands clasped before him, and his fair 
eyes gazing at vacancy. What could so disturb 
the studies of this melancholy wight ? Lady, he 
was in love ! Have you ever been in love } He 
had seen the face of the beautiful Hermione ; and 
as, when we have thoughtlessly looked at the sun. 
our dazzled eyes, though closed, behold it still; 
so he beheld by day and by night the radiant 
image of her upon whom he had too rashly gazed. 
Alas! he was unhappy ; for the proud Her¬ 
mione disdained the love of a poor student, whose 
only wealth was a magic lamp. In marble halls, 
and amid the gay crowd that worshipped her, she 
had almost forgotten that such a being lived as the 
Student Hieronymus. The adoration of his 
heart had been to her only as the perfume of a 
wild-flower which she had carelessly crushed 
with her foot, in passing. But he had lost all ; 
for he had lost the quiet of his thoughts ; and his 
agitated soul reflected only broken and distorted 
i-mages of things. The world laughed at the poor 


A ROMANCE. 


267 


student, who, in his threadbare cassock, dared to 
lift his eyes to the Lady Hermione ; while he sat 
alone, in his desolate chamber, and suffered in 
silence. He remembered many things w^hich he 
would fain have forgotten ; but which, if he had 
forgotten them, he would have wished again to 
remember. Such were the linden-trees of Bii- 
lach, under whose pleasant shades he had told his 
love to Hermione. This was the scene which he 
wished most to forget, yet loved most to remem¬ 
ber ; and of this he w^as now dreaming, with his 
nands clasped upon his book, and that music in 
his thoughts, which you. Lady, mistook for 
rhyme. 

“ Suddenly, with a melancholy clang, the con¬ 
vent clock struck twelve. It roused the Student 
Hieronymus from his dream ; and rang in his 
ears, like the iron hoofs of the steeds of Time. 
The magic hour had come, when the Divinity 
of the lamp most willingly revealed herself to 
her votary. The bronze figures seemed alive ; 
a white cloud rose from the flame and spread 
itself through the chamber, whose four walls 
dilated into magnificent cloud-vistas ; a fra¬ 
grance, as of wild-flow^ers, filled the air ; and a 
dreamy music, like distant, sweet-chiming bells, 


268 


HYPERION, 


announced the approach of the midnight Divinity. 
Through his streaming tears the heart-broken 
Student beheld her once more descending a pass 
in the snowy cloud-mountains, as, at evening, the 
dewy Hesperus comes from the bosom of the 
mist, and assumes his station in the sky. At her 
approach, his spirit grew more calm ; for her 
presence was, to his feverish heart, like a tropical 
night, — beautiful and soothing and invigorating. 
At length she stood before him, revealed in all her 
beauty ; and he comprehended the visible language 
of her sweet but silent lips, which seemed to say, 
— ‘ What would the Student Hieronymus to¬ 
night ? ’ — ‘ Peace ! ’ he answered, raising his 
clasped hands, and smiling through his tears. 
‘ The Student Hieronymus imploreth peace ! ’ 
^ Then go,’ said the spirit, ‘ go to the Fountain 
of Oblivion in the deepest solitude of the Black 
Forest, and cast this scroll into its waters ; and 
thou shalt be at peace once more.’ Hieronymus 
opened his arms to embrace the Divinity, for her 
countenance assumed the features of Hermione ; 
but she vanished away ; the music ceased ; the 
gorgeous cloud-land sank and fell asunder ; and 
the student was alone within the four bare walls 
of his chamber. As he bowed his head down- 


A ROMANCE. 


269 


ward, his eye fell upon a parchment scroll, which 
was lying beside the lamp. Upon it was written 
only the name of Hermione ! 

“ The next morning Hieronymus put the scroll 
mto his bosom, and went his way in search of the 
Fountain of Oblivion. A few days brought him 
to the skirts of the Black Forest. He entered, 
not without a feeling of dread, that land of 
shadows ; and passed onward under melancholy ' 
pines and cedars, whose branches grew abroad 
and mingled together, and, as they swayed up and 
down, filled the air with solemn twilight and a 
sound of sorrow. As he advanced into the for¬ 
est, the waving moss hung, like curtains, from 
the branches overhead, and more and more shut 
out the light of heaven; and he knew that the 
Fountain of Oblivion was not far off. Even 
then the sound of falling waters was mingling with 
the roar of the pines above him ; and ere long 
he came to a river, moving in solemn majesty 
through the forest, and falling with a dull, leaden 
sound into a motionless and stagnant lake, above 
which the branches of the forest met and mingled, 
forming perpetual night. This was the Fountain 
of Oblivion. 

“ Upon its brink the Student paused, and gazed 


270 


HYPERION 


into the dark waters with a steadfast look. They 
were limpid waters, dark with shadows only. 
And as he gazed, he beheld, far down in their 
silent depths, dim and ill-defined outlines, waver¬ 
ing to and fro, like the folds of a white garment 
in the twilight. Then more distinct and perma¬ 
nent shapes arose,—shapes familiar to his mind, 
yet forgotten and remembered again, as the frag¬ 
ments of a dream; till at length, far, far below 
him he beheld the great City of the Past, with 
silent marble streets, and moss-grown walls, and 
spires uprising with a wave-like, flickering motion. 
And, amid the crowd that thronged those streets, 
he beheld faces once familiar and dear to him; 
and heard sorrowful, sweet voices singing, ‘ O, 
forget us not! forget us not! ’ and then the dis¬ 
tant, mournful sound of funeral bells, that were 
tolling below, in the City of the Past. But in the 
gardens of that city there were children playing, 
and among them one who wore his features, as 
they had been in childhood. He was leading a 
little girl by the hand, and caressed her often, and 
adorned her with flowers. Then, like a dream, 
the scene changed, and the boy had grown older, 
and stood alone, gazing into the sky ; and, as he 
gazed, his countenance changed again, and Hie 


A ROMANCE. 


271 


ronymus beheld him, as if it had been his own 
image in the clear water; and before him stood a 
beauteous maiden, whose face was like the face 
of Hermione, and he feared lest the scroll had 
fallen into the water, as he bent over it. Start* 
ing, as from a dream, he put his hand into his 
bosom, and breathed freely again, when he found 
llie scroll still there. He drew it forth, and read 
the blessed name of Hermione, and the city 
beneath him vanished away, and the air grew 
fragrant as with the breath of May-flowers, and a 
light streamed through the shadowy forest and 
gleamed upon the lake ; and the Student Hierony¬ 
mus pressed the dear name to his lips and ex¬ 
claimed, with streaming eyes : ‘ O, scorn me as 
thou wilt, still, still will I love thee ; and thy 
name shall irradiate the gloom of my life, and 
make the waters of Oblivion smile ! ’ And the 
name was no longer Hermione, but was changed 
to Mary ; and the Student Hieronymus — is 
lying at your feet. O gentle Lady ’ « 

‘ I did hear you talk . 

Far above singing; after you were gone, 

I grew acquainted with my heart, and searched 
What stirred it so ! Alas ! I found it love.’ ” 


272 


HYPERION, 


CHAPTER IX. 

A TALK ON THE STAIRS. 

No ! I will not describe that scene ; nor how 
pale the stately lady sat on the border of the 
green, sunny meadow ! The hearts of some 
women tremble like leaves at every breath of 
love which reaches them, and then are still 
again. Others, like the ocean, are moved only 
by the breath of a storm, and not so easily lulled 
to rest. And such was the proud heart of Mary 
Ashburton. It had remained unmoved by the 
presence of this stranger ; and the sound of his 
footsteps and his voice excited in it no emotion. 
He had deceived himself! Silently they walk¬ 
ed homeward through the green meadow. The 
very sunshine was sad ; and the rising wind, 
through the old ruin above them, sounded in his 
ears like a hollow laugh ! 

Flemming went straight to his chamber. On 
the way, he passed the walnut-trees under which 


A ROMANCE, 


273 


he had first seen the face of Mary Ashburton. 
Involuntarily he closed his eyes. They were 
full of tears. O, there are places in this fair 
world, which we never wish to see again, how¬ 
ever dear they may be to us ! The towers of 
the old Franciscan convent never looked so 
gloomily as then, though the bright summer sun 
was shining full upon them. 

In his chamber he found Berkley. He was 
looking out of the window, whistling. 

“This evening I leave Interlachen for ever,” 
said Flemming, rather abruptly. Berkley star¬ 
ed. 

“ Indeed ! Pray, what is the matter } You 
look as pale as a ghost ! ” 

“ And have good reason to look pale,” replied 
, Flemming bitterly. “ Hoffmann says, in one of 
his note-books, that, on the eleventh of March, 

I at half past eight o’clock, precisely, he was an 
[ ass. That is what I was this morning, at half past 
ten o’clock, precisely, and am now, and I sup¬ 
pose always shall be.” 

He tried to laugh, but could not. He then re¬ 
lated to Berkley the whole story, from beginning 
to end. 

“ This is a miserable piece of business ! ” ex- 
18 




274 


HYPERION 


claimed Berkley, when he had finished. “ Strange 
enough ! And yet I have long ceased to marvel 
at the caprices of women. Did not Pan capti¬ 
vate the chaste Diana } Did not Titania love 
Nick Bottom, with his ass’s head. Do you think 
that maidens’ eyes are no longer touched with the 
juice of love-in-idleness ? Take my word for it, 
she is in love with somebody else. There must 
he some reason for this. No ; women never have 
any reasons, except their will. But never mind. 
Keep a stout heart. Care killed a cat. After 
all, — what is she Who is she ? Only a-” 

‘‘ Hush ! hush,” exclaimed Flemming, in great 
excitement. “ Not one word more, I beseech 
you. Do not think to console me, by depreciat¬ 
ing her. She is very dear to me still; a beauti¬ 
ful, high-minded, noble woman.” 

‘‘ Yes,” answered Berkley; “ that is the way 
with you all, you young men. You see a sweet 
face, or a something, you know not what, and 
flickering reason says. Good night; amen to com¬ 
mon sense ! The imagination invests the beloved 
object with a thousand superlative charms ; adorns 
her with all the purple and fine linen, all the rich 
apparel and furniture, of human nature. I did 
^the same, when I was young. I was once as des- 


A ROMANCE. 


275 


perately in love as you are now ; and went through 
all the 

‘ Delicious deaths, soft exhalations 
Of soul, dear and divine annihilations j 
A thousand unknown rites 
Of joys, and rarefied delights.’ 

I adored, and was rejected. ‘ You are in love 
with certain attributes,’ said the lady. ‘ Damn 
your attributes, Madam,’ said I; ‘ I know noth¬ 
ing of attributes.’ ‘ Sir,’ said she, with dignity, 
‘you have been drinking.’ So we parted. She 
was married afterwards to another, who knew 
something about attributes, I suppose. I have 
seen her once since, and only once. She had a 
baby in a yellow gown. I hate a baby in a yel¬ 
low gown. How glad I am she did not marry 
me ! One of these days, you will be glad you 
have been rejected. Take my word for it.” 

“ All that does not prevent my lot from being 
a very melancholy one ! ” said Flemming sadly. 

“ O, never mind the lot,” cried Berkley laugh¬ 
ing, “ so long as you do n’t get Lot’s wife. If 
the cucumber is bitter, throw it away, as the phi¬ 
losopher Marcus Antoninus says, in his Medita¬ 
tions. Forget her, and all will be as if you had 
not known her.” 



276 


HYPERION, 


“ I shall never forget her,” replied Flemming, 
rather solemnly. “ Not my pride, but my affec¬ 
tions, are wounded; and the wound is too deep 
ever to heal. I shall carry it wdth me always. 1 
enter no more into the world, but will dwell only 
in the world of my own thoughts. All great and 
unusual occurrences, whether of joy or sorrow, 
lift us above this earth ; and we should do well 
always to preserve this elevation. Hitherto I 
have not done so. But now I will no more de¬ 
scend ; I will sit apart and above the world, with 
my mournful, yet holy thoughts.” 

“ Whew ! You had better go into society ; the 
whirl and delirium will cure you in a week. If 
you find a lady who pleases you very much, and 
jou wish to marry her, and she will not listen to 
such a horrid thing, I see but one remedy, which 
is to find another, who pleases you more, and 
who will listen to it.” 

“ No, my friend ; you do not understand my 
character,” said Flemming, shaking his head. “ I 
love this woman with a deep and lasting affec¬ 
tion. I shall never cease to love her. This 
may be madness in me ; but so it is. Alas and 
alas ! Paracelsus of old wasted life in trying to 
discover its elixir, which after all turned out to be 


A ROMANCE. 


277 


alcohol ; and instead of being made immortal 
upon earth, he died drunk on the floor of a tav¬ 
ern. The like happens to many of us. We 
waste our best years in distilling the sweetest 
flowers of life into love-potions, which after all 
do not immortalize, but only intoxicate us. By 
Heaven ! we are all of us mad.” 

“ But are you sure the case is utterly hope¬ 
less ” 

‘‘ Utterly ! utterly ! ” 

“ And yet I perceive you have not laid aside 
all hope. You still flatter yourself that the lady’s 
heart may change. The great secret of happi¬ 
ness consists not in enjoying, but in renouncing. 
But it is hard, very hard. Hope has as many 
lives as a cat or a king. I dare say you have 
heard the old proverb, ‘ The king never dies.’ 
But perhaps you have never heard, that, at the 
court of Naples, when the dead body of a mon¬ 
arch lies in state, his dinner is carried up to him 
as usual, and the court physician tastes it, to see 
that it be not poisoned, and then the servants bear 
it out again, saying, ‘The king does not dine to¬ 
day.’ Hope in our souls is king ; and we also 
say, ‘ The king never dies.’ Even when in re¬ 
ality he lies dead within us, in solemn mockery 


278 


HYPERION 


we offer him his accustomed food, but are con¬ 
strained to say, ‘ The king does not dine to-day.’ 
It must be an evil day, indeed, when a king of 
Naples has no heart for his dinner ! but you your¬ 
self are a proof that the king never dies. You 
are feeding your king, although you say he is 
dead.” 

To show you that I do not wish to cherish 
hope,” replied Flemming, “ I shall leave Interla- 
chen to-morrow morning. I am going to the 
Tyrol.” 

“You are right,” said Berkley; “ there is 
nothing so good for sorrow as rapid motion in 
the open air. I shall go with you; though 
probably your conversation will not be very 
various ; nothing hut Edward and Kunigunde.” 

“ What do you mean by that ? ” 

“ Go to Berlin, and you will find out. How¬ 
ever, jesting apart, I will do all I can to cheer 
you, and make you forget the Dark Ladie, and 
this untoward accident.” 

“ Accident! ” said Flemming. “ This is no 
accident, but God’s providence, which brought 
us together, to punish me for my sins.” 

“ O, my friend,” interrupted Berkley, “ if 
you see the finger of Providence so distinctly in 
every act of your life, you will end by thinkmg 


A ROMANCE. 


279 


yourself an Apostle and Envoy Extraordinary. 
I see nothing so very uncommon in what has 
happened to you.” 

“ What! not when our souls are so akin to 
each other ? when we seemed so formed to be 
together, — to be one ? ” 

“ I have often observed,” replied Berkley 
coldly, “ that those who are of kindred souls 
rarely wed together ; almost as rarely as those 
who are akin by blood. Therefore, mad lover, 
do not think to persuade thyself and thy scornful 
lady that you have kindred souls; but rather 
the contrary, — that you are much unlike, and 
each wanting in those qualities which most mark 
and distinguish the other. Trust me, thy court¬ 
ship will then be more prosperous. But good 
morning. I must prepare for this sudden jour¬ 
ney.” 

On the following morning, Flemming and Berk¬ 
ley started on their way to Innsbruck, like Hu- 
on of Bordeaux and Scherasmin on their way 
to Babylon. Berkley’s self-assumed duty was 
to console his companion ; a duty which he per¬ 
formed like an ancient Spanish Despenadora 
whose business was to attend the sick, and put 
her elbow into the stomach of the dying to short¬ 
en their agony. 







BOOK THE FOURTH, 


“ Mortal, they softly say, 
Peace to thy heart! 

We too, yes, mortal. 

Have been as thou artj 
Hope-lifted, doubt-depressed. 
Seeing in part. 

Tried, troubled, tempted. 
Sustained, — as thou art.-’ 







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BOOK THE FOURTH. 


CHAPTER I. 

A MISERERE. 

In the Orlando Innamorato, Malagigi, the nec- 
'Fomancer, puts all the company to sleep by read¬ 
ing to them from a book. Some books have this 
power of themselves and need no necromancer. 
Fearing, Gentle Reader, that mine may be of this 
kind, I have provided these introductory chapters 
from time to time, like stalls or Misereres in a 
church, with flowery canopies and poppy-heads 
over them, where thou mayest sit down and sleep. 

No, —the figure is not a bad one. This book 
does somewhat resemble a minster, in the Ro¬ 
manesque style, with pinnacles, and flying but¬ 
tresses, and roofs, 

“ Gargoyled with greyhounds, and with many lions 
Made of f>ne gold, with divers sundry dragons.” 



284 


HYPERION, ’ 


You Step into its shade and coolness out of the 
hot streets of life ; a mysterious light streams 
through the painted glass of the marigold win¬ 
dows, staining the cusps and crumpled leaves of 
the window-shafts, and the cherubs and holy-wa- 
ter-stoups below. Here and there is an image 
of the Virgin Mary ; and other images, “ in di¬ 
vestures, called weepers, stand in housings made 
about the tomb ’’ ; and, above all, swells the vast 
dome of heaven, with its star-mouldings, and the 
flaming constellations, like the mosaics in the 
dome of St. Peter’s. Have you not heard funer-. 
al psalms from the chantry } Have you not 
heard the sound of church-bells, as I promised, — 
mysterious sounds from the Past and Future, as 
from the belfries outside the cathedral, — even 
such a mournful, mellow, watery peal of bells, 
as is heard sometimes at sea, from cities afar off 
below the horizon ? 

I know not how this Romanesque, and at times 
flamboyant, style of architecture may please the 
critics. They may wish, perhaps, that I had 
omitted some of my many ornaments, my ara¬ 
besques, and roses, and fantastic spouts, and Holy- 
Roods and Galilee-steeples. But would it then 
have been Romanesque ^ 


A ROMANCE. 


285 


But perhaps, gentle reader, thou art one of 
those who think the days of romance gone for¬ 
ever. Believe it not! O, believe it not! Thou 
hast at this moment in thy heart as sweet a 
romance as was ever written. Thou art not less 
a woman, because thou dost not sit aloft in a 
tower, with a tassel-gentle on thy wrist. Thou 
art not less a man, because thou wearest no 
hauberk, nor mail-sark, and goest not on horse¬ 
back after foolish adventures. Every one has a 
romance in his own heart. All that has blessed 
or awed the world lies there ; and 

“The oracle within him, that which lives, 

He must invoke and question, — not dead books, 

Not ordinances, not mould-rotten papers.” 

Sooner or later, some passages of every one’s 
romance must be written, either in words or 
actions. They will proclaim the truth; for 
Truth is thought which has assumed its appro¬ 
priate garments, either of words or actions ; 
while Falsehood is thought which, disguised in 
words or actions not its own, comes before the 
blind old world, as Jacob came before the patri¬ 
arch Isaac, clothed in the goodly raiment of his 
brother Esau. And the world, like the patriarch, 
is often deceived ; for, though the voice is Jacob’s 


^86 


HYPERION, 


voice, yet the hands are the hands of Esau, and 
the False takes away the birthright and the 
blessing from the True. Hence it is that the 
world so often lifts up its voice and weeps. 

That very pleasing and fanciful Chinese ro¬ 
mance, the Shadow in the Water, ends with the 
hero’s marrying both the heroines. I hope my 
gentle reader feels curious to know the end of 
this romance, which is a shadow upon the earth ; 
and see whether there be any marriage at all in 
it. 

That is the very point I am now thinking of, 
as I sit here at my pleasant chamber-window, 
and enjoy the balmy air of a bright summer 
morning, and watch the motions of the golden 
robin, that sits on its swinging nest on the outer¬ 
most pendulous branch of yonder elm. The 
broad meadows and the steel-blue river remind 
me of the meadows of Unterseen and the river 
Aar; and beyond them rise magnificent snow- 
white clouds, piled up like Alps. Thus the 
shades of Washington and William Tell seem to 
walk together on these Elysian Fields ; for it was 
here, that, in days long gone, our great patriot 
dwelt; and yonder clouds so much resemble the 
snowy Alps, that they remind me irresistibly of 


A ROMANCE. 


287 


the Swiss. Noble examples of a high purpose 
and a fixed will! Do they not move, Hyperion- 
like, on high ? Were they not, likewise, sons of 
Heaven and Earth ? 

Nothing can be more lovely than these summer 
mornings ; nor than the southern window at which 
I sit and write, in this old mansion, which is like 
an Italian villa. But, O, this lassitude, — this 
weariness, — when all around me is so bright ! 
I have this morning a singular longing for flowers ; 
a wish to stroll among the roses and carnations, 
and inhale their breath, as if it would revive me. 
I wish I knew the man who called flowers ‘‘the 
fugitive poetry of Nature.” From this distance, 
from these scholastic shades, —from this leafy, 
blossoming, and beautiful Cambridge, — I stretch 
forth my hand to grasp his, as the hand of a 
poet! — Yes ; this morning I would rather stroll 
I with him among the gay flowers, than sit here and 
I write. I feel so weary ! 

' Old men with their staves, says the Spanish 
poet, are ever knocking at the door of the grave. 

I But I am not old. The Spanish poet might 
1 have included the young also. — No matter ! 
Courage, and forward ! The romance must be 
finished, and finished soon. 





288 


HYPERION, 


O thou poor authorling ! Reach a little deep¬ 
er into the human heart ! Touch those strings, — 
touch those deeper strings, and more boldly, or 
the notes will die away like whispers, and no ear 
shall hear them, save thine own ! And, to 
cheer thy solitary labor, remember that the 
secret studies of an author are the sunken piers 
upon which is to rest the bridge of his fame, 
spanning the dark waters of Oblivion. They 
are out of sight; but without them no superstruc¬ 
ture can stand secure ! 

And now. Reader, since the sermon is over, 
and we are still sitting here in this Miserere, let 
us read aloud a page from the old parchment 
manuscript on the lettern before us ; let us sing 
it through these dusky aisles, like a Gregorian 
chant, and startle the sleeping congregation ! 

“ I have read of the great river Euripus, which 
ebbeth and floweth seven times a day, and with 
such violence, that it carrieth ships upon it with 
full sail directly against the wind. Seven times 
in an hour ebbeth and floweth rash opinion in 
the torrent of indiscreet and troublesome appre¬ 
hensions, carrying critic calumny and squint- 
eyed detraction mainly against the wind of wis¬ 
dom and judgment.” 

Tn seciila seculorum ’ Amen ! 


A ROMANCE. 


289 


CHAPTER 11. 

CURFEW BELLS. 

Welcome, Disappointment ! Thy hand is 
cold and hard, but it is the hand of a friend ! 
Thy voice is stern and harsh, but it is the voice 
of a friend ! O, there is something sublime in 
calm endurance, something sublime in the reso¬ 
lute, fixed purpose of suffering without complain¬ 
ing, which makes disappointment oftentimes bet¬ 
ter than success ! 

The Emperor Isaac Angelus made a treaty 
with Saladin, and tried to purchase the Holy 
Sepulchre with gold. Richard Lion-heart scorn¬ 
ed such alliance, and sought to recover it by 
battle. Thus do weak minds make treaties with 
the passions they cannot overcome, and try to 
purchase happiness at the expense of principle. 
But the resolute will of a strong man scorns such 
means ; and struggles nobly with his foe, to 
achieve great deeds. Therefore, whosoever thou 
19 


290 


HYPERION, 


art that sufferest, try not to dissipate thy sorrow 
by the breath of the world, nor drown its voice 
in thoughtless merriment. It is a treacherous 
peace that is purchased by indulgence. Rather 
take this sorrow to thy heart, and make it a part 
of thee, and it shall nourish thee till thou art 
strong again. 

The shadows of the mind are like those of the 
body. In the morning of life, they all lie behind 
us ; at noon, we trample them under foot; and 
in the evening, they stretch long, broad, and deep¬ 
ening before us. Are not, then, the sorrows 
of childhood as dark as those of age } Are not 
the morning shadows of life as deep and broad as 
those of its evening } Yes ; but morning shadows 
soon fade away, while those of evening reach 
forward into the night and mingle with the coming 
darkness. Man is begotten in delight and born 
in pain ; and in these are the rapture and labor 
of his life foreshadowed from the beginning. 
But the life of man upon this fair earth is made up, 
for the most part, of little pains and little pleasures. 
The great wonder-flowers bloom but once in a 
lifetime. 

A week had already elapsed since the events 
recorded in the last chapter.’ Paul Flemming 


A ROMANCE. 


291 


went his way, a melancholy man, drinking the 
sweet wormwood of his sorrow.” He did not 
rail at Providence and call it fate, but suffered 
and was silent. It is a beautiful trait in the 
lover’s character, that he thinks no evil of the 
object loved. What he suffered was no swift 
storm of feeling, that passes away with a noise, 
and leaves the heart clearer ; but a dark phantom 
had risen up in the clear night, and, like that of 
Adamastor, hid the stars ; and if it ever vanished 
away for a season, still the deep sound of the 
moaning main would be heard afar, through many 
a dark and lonely hour. And thus he journeyed 
on, wrapped in desponding gloom, and mainly 
heedless of all things around him. His mind was 
distempered. That one face was always before 
him ; that one voice forever saying : — 

You are not the Magician.” 

Painful, indeed, it is to be misunderstood and 
undervalued by those we love. But this, too, in 
our life, must we learn to bear without a murmur ; 
for it is a tale often repeated. 

There are persons in this world to whom all 
local associations are naught. The genius of the 
place speaks not to them. Even on battle-fields, 
where the voice of this genius is loudest, they 


292 


HYPERION 


hear only the sound of their own voices ; they 
meet there only their own dull and pedantic 
thoughts, as the old grammarian Brunetto Latini 
met on the plain of Roncesvalles a poor student 
riding on a bay mule. This was not always the 
case with Paul Flemming, but it had become so 
now. He felt no interest in the scenery around 
him. He hardly looked at it. Even the difficult 
mountain-passes, where, from his rocky eyrie the 
eagle-eyed Tyrolese peasant had watched his foe, 
and the roaring, turbid torrent underneath, which 
had swallowed up the bloody corse, that fell from 
the rocks like a crushed worm, awakened no 
lively emotion in his breast. All around him 
seemed dreamy and vague ; all within dim, as in a 
sun’s eclipse. As the moon, whether visible or 
invisible, has power over the tides of the ocean, 
so the face of that lady, whether present or absent, 
had power over the tides of his soul; both by day 
and night, both waking and sleeping. In every 
pale face and dark eye he saw a resemblance to 
her ; and what the day denied him in reality the 
night gave him in dreams. 

“ This is a strange, fantastic world,” said 
Berkley, after a very long silence, during which 
the two travellers had been sitting each in his 


A ROMANCE. 


29S 


corner of the travelling carriage, wrapped in his 
own reflections. “ A very strange, fantastic 
world; where each one pursues his own golden 
bubble, and laughs at his neighbour for doing the 
same. I have been thinking how a moral Lin¬ 
naeus would classify our race. I think he would 
divide it, — not as Lord Byron did, into two great 
classes, the bores and those who are bored, — but 
into three, namely : Happy Men, Lucky Dogs, 
and Miserable Wretches. This is more true 
and philosophical, though perhaps not quite so 
comprehensive. He is the Happy Man, who, 
blessed with modest ease, a wife and children, 
sits enthroned in the hearts of his family, and 
knows no other ambition than that of making 
those around him happy. But the Lucky Dog 
is he, who, free from all domestic cares, saunters 
up and down his room, in morning gown and 
slippers ; drums on the window, of a rainy day ; 
and, as he stirs his evening fire, snaps his fingers 
at the world, and says, ‘ I have no wife nor chil¬ 
dren, good or bad, to provide for.’ I had a 
friend who is now no more. He was taken 

away in the bloom of life, by a very rapid- 

widow. He was by birth and by profession a 
beau, — born with a quizzing-glass and a cane. 


294 


HYPE HI ON, 


Cock of the walk, he flapped his wings, and crow¬ 
ed among the feathered tribe. But, alas ! a fair, 
white partlet has torn his crest out, and he shall 
crow no more. In the evening he rocks the 
cradle, and gets up in the night when the child 
cries. Like a Goth of the Dark Ages, he con¬ 
sults his wife on all mighty matters, and looks 
upon her as a being of more than human good¬ 
ness and wisdom. In short, the women all say 
he is a very domestic man, and makes a good 
husband ; which, under the rose, is only a more 
polite way of saying he is henpecked. He 
is a Happy IMan. I have another dear friend, 
who is a sexagenary bachelor. He has one of 
those well-oiled dispositions which turn upon the 
hinges of the world without creaking. The hey¬ 
day of life is over with him ; but his old age is 
sunny and chirping; and a merry heart still 
nestles in his tottering frame, like a sw^allow that 
builds in a tumble-down chimney. He is a pro- 
lessed Squire of Dames. The rustle of a silk 
gowm is music to his ears, and his imagination is 
continually lantern-led by some will-with-a-wisp in 
the shape of a lady’s stomacher. In his devotion 
to the fair sex, — the muslin, as he calls it, — 
he is the gentle flow^er of chivalry. It is amusing 


A ROMANCE. 


295 


to see how quick he strikes into the scent of a 
lady’s handkerchief. When once fairly in pursuit, 
there is no such thing as throwing him out. His 
heart looks out at his eye ; and his inward delight 
tingles down to the tail of his coat. He loves to 
bask in the sunshine of a smile ; when he can 
breathe the sweet atmosphere of kid gloves and 
cambric handkerchiefs, his soul is in its element ; 
and his supreme delight is to pass the morning, to 
use his own quaint language, ‘ in making dodging 
calls, and wriggling round among the ladies ! ’ 
He is a Lucky Dog.” 

I “ And as a specimen of the class of Miserable 
I Wretches, I suppose you will take me,” said 
' Flemming, making an effort to enter into his 
friend’s humor. “ Certainly I am wretched 
enough. You may make me the stuffed bear,— 
the specimen of this class.” 

“ By no means,” replied Berkley ; “ you are 
not reduced so low. He only is utterly wretched, 
who is the slave of his own passions, or those of 
others. This, I trust, will never be your condi¬ 
tion. Why so wan and pale, fond lover } Do 
you remember Sir John Suckling’s song ? 

‘ Why so wan and pale, fond lover ? 

Pr’ythee why so pale ? 



296 


HYPERION, 


Will, if looking well can’t move her, 

Looking ill prevail ? 

Pr’ythee why so pale ? 

Why so dull and mute, young sinner ? 

Pr’ythee why so mute ? 

Will, if speaking well can’t win her, 

Saying nothing do’t ? 

Pr’ythee why so mute ? 

‘ Quit, quit, for shame ! this cannot move, 

This cannot take her ! 

If of herself she do not love, 

Nothing will make her ! 

The devil take her ! ’ 

How do you like that ? ” 

“ To you I say quit, quit for shame ! ” replied 
Flemming. “ Why quote the songs of that witty 
and licentious age ? Have you no better conso¬ 
lation to offer me ? How many, many times 
must I tell you, that I hear the lady no ill-will ? 
I do not blame her for not loving me. I desire 
her happiness, even at the sacrifice of my own.” 

‘‘ That is generous in you, and deserves a 
better fate. But you are so figurative in all you 
say, that a stranger would think you had no real 
feeling, and only fancied yourself in love.” 

“ Expression of feeling is different with differ¬ 
ent minds. It is not always simple. Some 


A ROMANCE. 


297 


minds, when excited, naturally speak in figures 
and similitudes. They do not on that account 
feel less deeply. This is obvious in our most 
common modes of speech. It depends upon the 
individual.” 

“ Kyrie Eleyson ! ” 

“ Well, abuse my figures of speech as much 
as you please. What I insist upon is, that 
you shall not abuse the lady. When did you 
ever hear me breathe a whisper against her ? ” 

“ Oho ! Now you speak like Launce to his 
dog ! ” 

Their conversation, which had begun so mer¬ 
rily, was here suddenly interrupted by a rattling 
peal of thunder, that announced a near-approach¬ 
ing storm. It was late in the afternoon, and the 
whole heaven black with low, trailing clouds. 
Still blacker the storm came sailing up majestical¬ 
ly from the southwest, with almost unbroken vol¬ 
leys of distant thunder. The wind seemed to be 
storming a cloud redoubt; and marched onward 
with dust, and the green banners of the trees flap¬ 
ping in the air, and heavy cannonading, and occa¬ 
sionally an explosion, like the blowing up of a 
powder-wagon. Mingled with this was the sound 
of thunder-bells from a village not far off. They 


298 


HYPERION, 


were all ringing dolefully to ward off the thunder¬ 
bolt. At the entrance of the village stood a large 
wooden crucifix, around which was a crowd of 
priests and peasants, kneeling in the wet grass, by 
the roadside, with their hands and eyes lifted to 
heaven, and praying for rain. Their prayer was 
soon answered. 

The travellers drove on with the driving wind 
and rain. They had come from Landeck, and 
hoped to reach Innsbruck before midnight. Night 
closed in, and Flemming fell asleep with the loud 
storm overhead, and at his feet the roaring Inn, a 
mountain torrent leaping onward as wild and rest¬ 
less as when it first sprang from its cradle in the 
solitudes of Engaddin ; meet emblem of himself, 
thus rushing through the night. His slumber was 
long, but broken ; and at length he awoke in ter¬ 
ror ; for he heard a voice pronounce in his ear 
distinctly these words : — 

“ They have brought the dead body.” 

They were driving by a churchyard at the en¬ 
trance of a town ; and among the tombs a dim 
lamp was burning before an image of the Virgin. 
It had a most unearthly appearance. Flemming 
almost feared to see the congregation of the dead 
go into the church and sing their midnight mass. 


A ROMANCE. 


299 


He spoke to Berkley, but received no answer; 
he was in a deep sleep. 

‘‘ Then it was only a dream,” said he to him¬ 
self ; yet how distinct the voice was ! O, if 
we had spiritual organs, to see and hear things 
now invisible and inaudible to us, we should be¬ 
hold the whole air filled with the departing souils 
of that vast multitude which every moment dies, 
— should behold them streaming up like thin va¬ 
pors heavenward, and hear the startling blast of 
the archangel’s trump sounding incessant through 
the universe and proclaiming the awful judgment- 
day ! Truly, the soul departs not alone on its last 
journey, but spirits of its kind attend it, when not 
ministering angels ; and they go in families to the 
unknown land ! Neither in life nor in death are 
we alone.” 

He slept again at intervals ; and at length, 
though long after midnight, reached Innsbruck be¬ 
tween sleeping and waking ; his mind filled with 
dim recollections of the unspeakably dismal night- 
journey ; — the climbing of hills, and plunging in¬ 
to dark ravines ; the momentary rattling of the 
wheels over paved streets of towns, and the suc¬ 
ceeding hollow rolling and tramping on the wet 
earth; the blackness of the night; the thunder 


300 


HYPERION 


and lightning and rain ; the roar of waters, leap¬ 
ing through deep chasms by the roadside; and 
the wind through the mountain-passes, sounding 
loud and long, like the inextinguishable laughter 
of the gods. 

The travellers on the morrow lingered not long 
in Innsbruck. They did not fail, however, to 
visit the tomb of Maximilian in the Franciscan 
Church of the Holy Cross, and gaze with some 
admiration upon the twenty-eight gigantic bronze 
statues of Godfrey of Bouillon, and King Arthur, 
and Ernest the Iron-man, and Frederick of the 
Empty Pockets, kings and heroes, and others, 
which stand leaning on their swords between the 
columns of the church, as if guarding the tomb 
of the dead. These statues reminded Flemming 
of the bronze giants which strike the hours on 
the belfry of San Basso, in Venice, and of the 
flail-armed monsters that guarded the gateway of 
Angulaffer’s castle in Oberon. After gazing 
awhile at these motionless sentinels, they went 
forth, and strolled through the public gardens, 
with the jagged mountains right over their heads, 
and all around them tall, melancholy pines, like 
Tyrolese peasants, with shaggy hair ; and at their 
feet the mad torrent of the Inn, sweeping with 


A ROMANCE. 


301 


turbid waves through the midst of the town. In 
the afternoon^ they drove on towards Salzburg, 
through the magnificent mountain-passes of Wai- 
dering and Unken. 



302 


HYPERION, 


CHAPTER III. 

SHADOWS ON THE WALL. 

On the following morning, Flemming awoke m 
a chamber of the Golden Ship at Salzburg, just 
as the clock in the Dome-church opposite was 
striking ten. The window-shutters were closed, 
and the room was nearly dark. He was lying 
with his hands crossed upon his breast, and his 
eyes looking up at the white curtains overhead. 
He thought them the white marble canopy of a 
tomb, and himself the marble statue lying beneath 
When the clock ceased striking, the eight-and- 
twenty gigantic bronze statues from the Church 
of Holy Rood in Innsbruck stalked into the 
chamber, and arranged themselves along the walls, 
which spread into dimly lighted aisles and arches. 
On the painted windows he saw Interlachen, with 
its Franciscan cloister, and the Square Tower of 
the ruins. In a pendent, overhead, stood the 


A ROMANCE. 


303 


German mechanic, as Saint Vitus; and on a lavato¬ 
ry, or basin of holy-water, below, sat a cherub, 
with the form and features of Berkley. Then 
the organ-pipes began to blow, and he heard the 
voices of an invisible choir chanting. And anon 
the gilded gates in the bronze screen before the 
chancel opened, and a bridal procession passed 
through. The bride was clothed in the garb of 
the Middle Ages ; and held a book in her hand, 
with velvet covers, and golden clasps. It was 
]\Iary Ashburton. She looked at him, as she 
passed. Her face was pale ; and there were 
tears in her sweet eyes. Then the gates closed 
again ; and one of the oaken poppy-heads over a 
carved stall, in the shape of an owl, flapped its 
broad wings, and hooted, “ To-whit! to-whoo ! ” 
; Then the whole scene changed ; and he thought 
himself a monk’s-head on a gutter-spout; and it 
rained dismally ; and Berkley was standing un- 
. derneath with an umbrella, laughing ! 

In other words, Flemming was in a raging fe- 
[ ver, and delirious. He remained in this state for 
, a week. The first thing he was conscious of \vas 
hearing the doctor say to Berkley : — 

“ The crisis is passed. I now consider him out 
of danger.” 



304 


HYPERION 


He then fell into a sweet sleep ; the wild fever 
had swept away like an angry, red cloud, and the 
refreshing summer rain began to fall like dew up¬ 
on the parched earth. Still another week, and 
Flemming was “ sitting clothed, and in his right 
mind.” Berkley had been reading to him ; and 
still held the book in his hand, with his fore-finger 
between the leaves. It was a volume of Hoff¬ 
mann’s writings. 

“ How very strange it is,” said he, “ that you 
can hardly open the biography of any German au¬ 
thor, but you will find it begin with an account of 
his grandfather ! It .will tell you how the vener¬ 
able old man walked up and down the garden 
among the gay flowers, wrapped in his morning 
gown, which is likewise covered with flowers, and 
perhaps wearing on his head a little velvet cap. 
Or you will find him sitting by the chimney-cor¬ 
ner in the great chair, smoking his ancestral pipe, 
with shaggy eyebrows, and eyes like birdnests un¬ 
der the eaves of a house, and a mouth like a Nu¬ 
remberg nutcracker’s. The future poet climbs 
upon the old man’s knees. His genius is not rec¬ 
ognized yet. He is thought for the most part a 
dull boy. His father is an austere man, or per¬ 
haps dead. But the mother is still there, a sick- 


A ROMANCE. 


305 


ly, saint-like woman, with knitting-work ; and an 
elder sister, who has already been in love, ana 
wears rings on her fingers ; — 

‘ Death’s heads, and such mementoes, 

Her grandmother and worm-eaten aunts left to her, 

To tell her what her beauty must arrive at.’ ” 

“ But this is not the case with the life of Hoff¬ 
mann, if I recollect right.” 

“ No, not precisely. Instead of the grand¬ 
father, we have the grandmother, a stately dame, 
who has long since shaken hands with the vanities 
of life. The mother, separated from her hus¬ 
band, is sick in mind and body, and flits to and 
fro like a shadow. Then there is an affectionate 
maiden aunt ; and an uncle, a retired judge, the 
terror of little boys, — the Giant Despair of this 
Doubting Castle in Kdnigsberg ; and occasion¬ 
ally the benign countenance of a venerable grand¬ 
uncle, whom Lamotte Fouque called a hero of 
the olden time in morning gown and slippers, 
looks in at the door and smiles. In the upper 
story of the same house lived a poor boy with 
his mother, who was so far crazed as to believe 
herself to be the Virgin Mary, and her son the 
Saviour of the world. Wild fancies, likewise, 
were to sweep through the brain of that child. 

20 


306 


HYPERION, 


He was to meet Hoffmann elsewhere and be his 
friend in after years, though as yet they knew 
nothing of each other. This was Werner, who 
has made some noise in German literature as the 
author of many wild Destiny-Dramas.” 

“ Hoffmann died, I believe, in Berlin.” 

‘‘Yes. He left Konigsberg at twenty years 
of age, and passed the next eight years of his 
life in the Prussian-Polish provinces, where he 
held some petty office under government, and 
took to himself many bad habits and a Polish 
wife. After this he was Music-Director at va¬ 
rious German theatres, and led a wandering, 
wretched life for ten years. He then went to 
Berlin as Clerk of the Exchange, and there re¬ 
mained till his death, which took place some sev¬ 
en or eight years afterward.” 

“ Did you ever see him ? ” 

“ I was in Berlin during his lifetime, and saw 
him frequently. I shall never forget the first time. 
It was at one of the Esthetic Teas given by a 
literary lady unter den Linden^ where the lions 
were fed with convenient food, from tea and 
bread and butter up to oysters and Rhine-wine. 
During the evening, my attention was arrested by 
the entrance of a strange little figure, with a wild 


A ROMANCE. 


307 


head of brown hair. His eyes were bright gray ; 
and his thin lips closely pressed together with an 
expression of not unpleasing irony. This strange- 
looking personage began to bow his way through 
the crowd, wiih quick, nervous, hinge-like motions, 
much resembling those of a marionnette. He had 
a hoarse voice, and such a rapid utterance, that, 
although I understand German well enough for 
ordinary purposes, I could not make out one 
half he said. Ere long he had seated himself at 
the piano-forte, and was improvising such wild, 
sweet fancies, that the music of one’s dreams is 
not more sweet and wdld. Then suddenly some 
painful thought seemed to pass over his mind, as 
if he imagined that he was there to amuse the 
company. He rose from the piano-forte, and 
seated himself in another part of the room ; where 
he began to make grimaces, and talk loud while 
others were singing. Finally he disappeared like 
a hobgoblin, laughing, ‘ Ho ! ho ! ho ! ’ I ask¬ 
ed a person beside me who this strange being 
was. ‘ That was Hoffmann,’ was the answer. 
‘ The Devil ! ’ said I. ‘Yes,’ continued my in¬ 
formant ; ‘ and if you should follow him now, you 
would see him plunge into an obscure and unfre¬ 
quented wine-cellar, and there, amid boon com- 


308 


HYPERION 


panions, with wine and tobacco-smoke, and quirks 
and quibbles, and quaint, witty sayings, turn the 
dim night into glorious day.’ ” 

“ What a strange being ! ” 

“ I once saw him at one of his night-carouses. 
He was sitting in his glory, at the head of the ta¬ 
ble ; not stupidly drunk, but ^varmed with wine,. 
which made him madly eloquent, as the Devil’s 
Elixir did the monk Medardus. There, in the 
full tide of witty discourse, or, if silent, his gray 
hawk-eye flashing from beneath his matted hair, 
and taking note of all that was grotesque in the 
company round him, sat this unfortunate genius, 
till the day began to dawn. Then he found his 
way homeward, having, like the souls of the envi¬ 
ous in Purgatory, his eyelids sewed together with 
iron wire ; — though his was from champagne 
bottles. At such hours he wrote his wild, fantas¬ 
tic tales. To his excited fancy every thing as¬ 
sumed a spectral look. The shadows of familiar 
things about him stalked like ghosts through the 
haunted chambers of his soul ; and the old por¬ 
traits on the walls winked at him, and seemed step¬ 
ping down from their frames ; till, aghast at the 
spectral throng about him, he would call his wife 
from her bed, to sit by him while he wrote.” 


A ROMANCE. 


309 


No wonder he died in the prime of life ! ” 

“ No. The only wonder is, that he could 
have followed this course of life for six years. 
I am astonished that it did not kill him sooner.” 

‘‘ But death came at last in an appalling shape.” 

“ Yes ; his forty-sixth birthday found him sit¬ 
ting at home in his arm-chair, with his friends 
around him. But the rare old wine — he al¬ 
ways drank the best—touched not the sick 
man’s lips that night. His wonted humor was 
gone. Of all his ‘jibes, his gambols, his songs, 
his flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the 
table on a roar, not one now, to mock his own 
grinning!—quite chap-fallen.’ The conversa¬ 
tion was of death and the grave. And when one 
of his friends said that life was not the highest 
good, Hoffmann interrupted him, exclaiming, with 
a startling earnestness, — ‘No, no! Life, life, 
only life ! on any condition whatsoever ! ’ Five 
months after this he had ceased to suffer, because 
he had ceased to live. He died piecemeal. 
His feet and hands, his legs and arms, gradually, 
and in succession, became motionless, dead. But 
his spirit was not dead, nor motionless ; and, 
through the solitary day or sleepless night, lying 
in his bed, he dictated to an amanuensis his 


310 


HYPERION, 


last stories. Strange stories, indeed, were they 
for a dying man to write ! Yet such delight did 
he take in dictating them, that he said to his 
friend Hitzig, that, upon the whole, he was willing 
to give up for ever the use of his hands, if he 
could but preserve the power of writing by dicta¬ 
tion. Such was his love of life, — of what he 
called the sweet habitude of being ! ” 

Was it not he, who in his last hours express¬ 
ed such a longing to behold the green fields once 
more, and exclaimed, — ‘ Heaven * it is already 
summer, and I have not yet seen a single green 
tree ’ ” 

“ Yes, that was Hoffmann. Soon afterwards 
he died. The closing scene was striking. He 
gradually lost all sensation, though his mind re¬ 
mained vigorous. Feeling no more pain, he said 
to his physician, — ‘ It will soon be over now. I 
feel no more pain.’ He thought himself well 
again ; but the physician knew that he was dying, 
and said, —‘ Yes, it will soon be over ! ’ The 
next morning he called his wife to his bedside, and 
begged her to fold his motionless hands together. 
Then, as he raised his eyes to heaven, she heard 
him say, ‘ We must, then, think of God, also 1 ’ 
More sorrowful words than these have seldom 


A ROMANCE. 


sn 


fallen from the lips of man. Shortly afterwards 
the flame of life glared up within him ; he said he 
was well again; that in the evening he should go 
on with the story he was writing ; and wished that 
the last sentence might be read ovej; to him. 
Shortly after this they turned his face to the wall, 
and he died.’’ 

“ And thus passed to its account a human soul, 
after much self-inflicted suffering. Let us tread 
lightly upon the poet’s ashes. For my part, I 
confess that I have not the heart to take him 
from the general crowd of erring, sinful men, and 
judge him harshly. The little I have seen of the 
world, and know of the history of mankind, 
teaches me to look upon the errors of others in 
sorrow, not in anger. When I take the history 
of one poor heart that has sinned and suffered, 
and represent to myself the struggles and tempta¬ 
tions it has passed, — the brief pulsations of joy, 
— the feverish inquietude of hope and fear, — the 
tears of regret, — the feebleness of purpose, —the 
pressure of want, — the desertion of friends, — 
the scorn of a world that has little charity, — the 
desolation of the soul’s sanctuary, — and threat¬ 
ening voices within, — health gone, — happiness 
gone, — even hope, that stays longest with us. 


312 


HYPERION, 


gone, — I have little heart for aught else than 
thankfulness that it is not so with me, and would 
fain leave the erring soul of my fellow-man with 
Him from whose hands it came, 

^ ‘ Even as a little girl, 

Weeping and laughing in her childish sport.’ ” 

“ You are right. And it is worth a student’s 
while to observe calmly how tobacco, wine, and 
midnight did their work like fiends upon the deli¬ 
cate frame of Hoffmann ; and no less thoroughly 
upon his delicate mind. He who drinks beer 
thinks beer; and he who drinks wine thinks 
wine ; and he who drinks midnight thinks mid¬ 
night. He was a man of rare intellect. He was 
endowed with racy humor, and sarcastic wit, and 
a glorious imagination. But the fire of his genius 
burned not peacefully and with a steady flame 
upon the hearth of his home. It was a glaring 
and irregular flame ; — for the branches that he 
fed it with were not branches from the Tree of 
Life, —but from another tree that grew in Para¬ 
dise,— and they were wet with the unhealthy 
dews of night, and more unhealthy wine ; and 
thus, amid smoke and ashes, the fire burned fit¬ 
fully, and went out with a glare which leaves the 
beholder blind.” 


A ROMANCE. 


313 


“ This fire within him was a Meleager’s fire¬ 
brand ; and, when it burned out, he died. And, 
as you say, marks of all this are clearly visible in 
Hoffmann’s writings. Indeed, when I read his 
strange fancies, it is with me as when in the sum¬ 
mer night I hear the rising wind among the trees, 
and the branches bow, and beckon with their long 
fingers, and voices go gibbering and mocking 
through the air. A feeling of awe and mysterious 
dread comes over me. I wish to hear the sound 
of living voice or footstep near me,—to see a 
friendly and familiar face. In truth, if it be late 
at night, the reader as well as the writer of these 
unearthly fancies would fain have a patient, meek¬ 
eyed wife, with her knitting-work, at his elbow.” 

Berkley smiled ; but Flemming continued with¬ 
out noticing the -smile, though he knew what was 
passing in the mind of his friend : — 

‘‘ The life and writings of this singular being 
interest me in a high degree. Sometimes we may 
learn more from a man’s errors than from his 
virtues. Moreover, from the common sympa¬ 
thies of our nature, souls that have struggled and 
suffered are dear to me. Willingly do I recog¬ 
nize their brotherhood. Scars upon their fore¬ 
heads do not so deform them that they cease to 


314 


HYPERION, 


interest. They are always signs of struggle; 
though, alas ! too often, likewise, of defeat. 
Seasons of unhealthy, dreamy, vague delight are 
followed by seasons of weariness and darkness. 
Where are then the bright fancies, that, amid the 
great stillness of the night, arise like stars in the 
firmament of our souls ? The morning dawms, 
the light of common day shines in upon us, and 
the heavens are without a star ! From the lives 
of such men we learn that mere pleasant sensa¬ 
tions are not happiness ; that sensual pleasures 
are to be drunk sparingly, and, as it were, from 
the palm of the hand ; and that those who bow 
down upon their knees to drink of these bright 
streams that water life are not chosen of God 
either to overthrow or to overcome ! ” 

‘‘ I think you are very lenient in your judgment. 
This is not the usual defect of critics. Like 
Shakspeare’s Samphire-gatherer, they have a 
dreadful trade ! and, to make the simile complete, 
they ought to hang for it ! ” 

‘‘ Methinks, it would be hard to hang a man for 
the sake of a simile. But now go on with the 
Phantasy-Pieces in Callot’s manner.” 

By the way, who was this Callot ? ” 

He was a Loraine painter, of the seventeenth 


A ROMANCE. 


315 


century, celebrated for his wild and grotesque 
conceptions. These sketches of Hoffmann are 
imitations of his style.” 

“ And which of them shall I read to you next ? 
The Ritter Gliick ; or the Musical Sufferings of 
John Kreisler ; or that exquisite story of the 
Golden Jar, wherein is depicted the life of Poesy 
in this commonplace world of ours ? ” 

“ Read the shortest. Read Kreisler. That 
will amuse me. It is a picture of his own suffer¬ 
ings at the JEsthetic Teas in Berlin, supposed to 
be written in pencil on the blank leaves of a 
music-book.” 

Thereupon Berkley leaned back in his easy- 
chair, and read as follows. 


316 


HYPERION, 


CHAPTER IV. 

MUSICAL SUFFERINGS OF JOHN KREISLER. 

“ They are all gone! I might have known it 
by the whispering, shuffling, coughing, humming 
through all the notes of the gamut. It was a true 
swarm of bees, leaving the old hive. Gottlieb has 
lighted fresh candles for me, and placed a bottle 
of Burgundy on the piano-forte. I can play no 
more, I am perfectly exhausted. My glorious old 
friend here on the music-stand is to blame for 
that. Again he has borne me away through the 
air, as Mephistopheles did Faust, and so high, that 
I took not the slightest notice of the little men 
under me, though I dare say they made noise 
enough. A rascally, worthless, wasted evening ! 
But now I am well and merry! However, while 
I was playing, I took out my pencil, and on page 
sixty-three, under the last staff, noted down a 
couple of good flourishes in cipher with my right 


A ROMANCE. 


317 


hand, while the left was struggling away in the 
torrent of sweet sounds. Upon the blank page at 
the end I go on writing. I leave all ciphers and 
sweet sounds, and with true delight, like a sick man 
restored to health, who can never stop relating 
what he has suffered, I note down here circumstan¬ 
tially the dire agonies of this evening’s tea-party. 
And not for myself alone, but likewise for all those 
who from time to time may amuse and edify 
themselves with my copy of John Sebastian 
Bach’s Variations for the Piano-forte, published 
by Niigeli in Zurich, and who find my marks at 
the end of the thirtieth variation, and, led on by 
the great Latin Verte^ (I will write it down the 
moment I get through this doleful statement of 
grievances,) turn over the leaf and read. 

“ They will at once see the connection. They 
know that the Geheimerath Rddelein’s house is a 
charming house to visit in, and that he has two 
daughters, of whom the whole fashionable w'orld 
proclaims with enthusiasm, that they dance like 
goddesses, speak French like angels, and play and 
sing and draw like the Muses. The Geheimerath 
Rddelein is a rich man. At his quarterly dinners 
he brings on the most delicious wines and richest 
dishes. All is established on a footing of the 


318 


HYPERION, 


greatest elegance ; and whoever at his tea-parties 
does not amuse himself heavenly, has no ton^ no 
esprit^ and particularly no taste for the fine arts. 
It is with an eye to these, that, with the tea, punch, 
wine, ices, etc., a little music is always served 
up, which, like the other refreshments, is very 
quietly swallowed by the fashionable world. 

‘‘ The arrangements are as follows.—After every 
guest has had time enough to drink as many cups of 
tea as he may wish, and punch and ices have been 
handed round twice, the servants wheel out the 
card-tables for the elder and more solid part of the 
company, who had rather play cards than any mu¬ 
sical instrument; and, in fact, this kind of playing 
does not make such a useless noise as the other, 
and you hear only the clink of money. 

“ This is a hint for the younger part of the com¬ 
pany to pounce upon the Misses Rddelein. A 
great tumult ensues; in the midst of which you 
can distinguish these words, — 

Schones FrduleinI do not refuse us the 
gratification of your heavenly talent! O, sing 
something! that’s a good dear! — impossible,— 
bad cold, — the last ball! have not practised any¬ 
thing, — oh, do, do, we beg of you,’ etc. 

“ Meanwhile Gottlieb has opened the piano-forte, 


A ROMANCE. 


319 


and placed the well-known music-book on the 
stand ; and from the card-table cries the respect¬ 
able mamma, — 

‘ Chantez donc^ mes enfants! ’ 

“ That is the cue of my part. I place myself at 
the piano-forte, and the Rbdeleins are led up to the 
instrument in triumph. 

‘‘ And now another difficulty arises. Neither 
wishes to sing first. 

“‘You know, dear Nanette, how dreadfully 
hoarse I am.’ 

“ ‘ Why, my dear Marie, I am as hoarse as 
you are.’ 

“ ‘ I sing so badly ! — ’ 

“ ‘ O my dear child ; do begin ! ’ 

“ My suggestion, (I always make the same!) 
that they should both begin together with a duet, 
is loudly applauded ; — the music-book is thumbed 
over, and the leaf, carefully folded down, is at 
length found, and away we go with Dolce delV 
anima^ etc. 

“ To tell the truth, the talent of the Misses Rd- 
delein is not the smallest. I have been an instructor 
here only five years, and little short of two years in 
the Rddelein family. In this short time, Fraulein 
Nanette has made such progress, that a tune, 


320 


HYPERION. 


which she has neard at the theatre only ten times, 
and has played on the piano-forte, at farthest, ten 
times more, she will sing right off, so that you 
know in a moment what it is. Fraulein Marie 
catches it at the eighth time ; and if she is some¬ 
times a quarter of a note lower than the piano¬ 
forte, after all it is very tolerable, considering 
her pretty little doll-face, and very passable rosy 
lips. 

“ After the duet, a universal chorus of applause ! 
And now arriettas and duettinos succeed each 
other, and right merrily I hammer away at the 
thousand-times-repeated accompaniments. During 
the singing, the Finanzrathin Eberstein, by cough¬ 
ing and humming, has given us to understand that 
she also sings. Fraulein Nanette says : 

“ ‘ But, my dear Finanzrathin, now you must let 
us hear your exquisite voice.’’ 

“ A new tumult arises. She has a bad cold in 
her head,— she does not know any thing by heart! 
Gottlieb brings straightway two armfuls of music- 
books ; and the leaves are turned over again and 
again. First she thinks she will sing Der Hdlle 
Rache^ etc., then Hebe sich, etc .then AcA, Ich 
liehie., etc. In this embarrassment, I propose, 
Ein Veilchen auf der Wiese, etc. But she is 


A ROMANCE. 


321 


for the heroic style ; she wants to make a display, 
and finally selects Constanze. 

“O, scream, squeak, mew, gurgle, groan, ago¬ 
nize, quiver, quaver, just as much as you please. 
Madam, I have my foot on the fortissimo pedal, 
and thunder myself deaf! O Satan, Satan ! which 
of thy goblins damned has got into this throat, 
pinching, and kicking, and cuffing the tones about 
so ! Four strings have snapped already, and one 
hammer is lamed for life. My ears ring again,— 
my head hums, — my nerves tremble ! Have all 
the harsh notes from the cracked trumpet of a 
mountebank been imprisoned in this little throat! 
(But this excites me,— I must drink a glass of 
Burgundy.) 

“ The applause was unbounded ; and some one 
observed, that the Finanzrathin and Mozart had 
put me quite into a blaze. I smiled with downcast 
eyes, very stupidly. I could but acknowledge it. 
And now all talents, which hitherto had bloomed 
unseen, were in motion, wildly flitting to and fro. 
They were bent upon a surfeit of music; tuttis, 
finales, choruses, must be performed. The Ca- 
nonicus Kratzer sings, you know, a heavenly bass, 
as was observed by the gentleman yonder, with 
the head of Titus Andronicus, who modestly re- 
21 


322 


HYPERION, 


marked also, that he himself was properly only a 
second-rate tenor ; but, though he said it, who 
should not say it, he was nevertheless member of 
several academies of music. Forthwith prepara¬ 
tions are made for the first chorus in the opera of 
Titus. It went off gloriously. The Canonicus, 
standing close behind me, thundered out the bass 
over my head, as if he were singing with bass-drums 
and trumpet obligato in a cathedral. He struck 
the notes gloriously ; but in his hurry he got the 
tempo about twice too slow. However, he w^as 
true to himself at least in this, that through the 
whole piece he dragged along just half a beat be¬ 
hind the rest. The others showed a most decided 
penchant for the ancient Greek music, which, as 
is well known, having nothing to do with harmony, 
ran on in unison or monotone. They all sang 
treble, with slight variations, caused by accidental 
rising or falling of the voice, say some quarter of 
a note. 

“ This somewhat noisy affair produced a uni¬ 
versal tragic state of feeling, namely a kind of 
terror, even at the card-tables, which for the mo¬ 
ment could no longer, as before, chime in melo¬ 
dramatic, by weaving into the music sundry ex¬ 
clamations ; as, for instance : 


A ROMANCE. 


323 


“‘O! I loved, — eight and forty,—was so 
happy, — I pass, — then I knew not, — whist, — 
pangs of love,— follow suit,’ etc. — It has a very 
pretty effect. (I fill my glass.) 

‘‘ That was the highest point of the musical 
exhibition this evening. ‘ Now it is all over,’ 
thought I to myself. I shut the book, and got 
up from the piano-forte. But the Baron, my 
ancient tenor, came up to me and said : 

My dear Herr Capellmeister, they say you 
play the most exquisite voluntaries ! Now do 
play us one ; only a short one, I entreat you ! ’ 

‘‘ I answered very dryly, that to-day my fanta¬ 
sies had all gone a wool-gathering ; and while we 
are talking about it, a devil, in the shape of a 
dandy, with two waistcoats, had smelt out Bach’s 
Variations, which were lying under my hat in the 
next room. He thinks they are merely little 
variations, such as Nel cor mio nonpiu sento^ or 
Ah^ vous dirai-je^ maman^ etc., and,insists upon 
it that I shall play them. I try to excuse myself, 
but they all attack me. So then,' ‘ Listen, and 
burst with ennui,’ think I to myself, — and be¬ 
gin to work away. 

“ When I had got to variation number three, 
several ladies departed, followed by the gentleman 


324 


HYPERION 


with the Titus-Andronicus head. The Rddeleins, 
as their teacher was playing, stood it out, though not 
without difficulty, to number twelve. Number fif¬ 
teen made the man with two waistcoats take to his 
heels. Out of most excessive politeness, the Baron 
stayed till number thirty, and drank up all the 
punch, which Gottlieb placed on the piano-forte 
for me. 

“ I should have brought all to a happy conclu¬ 
sion, but, alas ! this number thirty— the theme — 
tore me irresistibly away. Suddenly the quarto 
leaves spread out to a gigantic folio, on which 
a thousand imitations and developments of the 
theme stood written, and I could not choose but 
play them. The notes became alive, and glim¬ 
mered and hopped all round about me, — an elec¬ 
tric fire streamed through the tips of my fingers 
into the keys,— the spirit, from which it gushed 
forth, spread his broad wings over my soul, the 
whole room was filled with a thick mist, in which 
the candles burned dim, — and through which 
peered forth now a nose, and anon a pair of eyes, 
and then suddenly vanished away again. And 
thus it came to pass, that I was left alone with 
rny Sebastian Bach, by Gottlieb attended, as by 
a familiar spirit. (Your good health, Sir.) 


A ROMANCE. 


325 


‘‘ Is an honest musician to be tormented with 
music, as I have been to-day, and am so often 
tormented ? Verily, no art is so damnably abused, 
as this same glorious, holy Musica, who, in her 
delicate being, is so easily desecrated. Have 
you real talent, — real feeling for art ^ Then 
study music, — do something worthy of the art, 
— and dedicate your whole soul to the beloved 
saint. If without this you have a fancy for qua¬ 
vers and demi-semi-quavers, practise for yourself 
and by yourself, and torment not therewith the 
Capellmeister Kreisler and others. 

“ Well, now I might go home, and put the 
finishing touch to my sonata for the piano-forte ; but 
it is not yet eleven o’clock, and, withal, a beau¬ 
tiful summer night. I will lay any wager, that at 
my neighbour’s, the Oberjagerrneister, the young 
ladies are sitting at the window, screaming down 
into the street, for the twentieth time, with 
harsh, sharp, piercing voices, ‘ When thine eye 
is beaming, love,’—but only the first stanza, over 
and over again. Obliquely across the way, some 
one is murdering the flute, and has, moreover, 
lungs like Rameau’s nephew; and, in notes of 
‘ linked sweetness long drawn out,’ his neighbour 
is trying acoustic experiments on the French horn. 


326 


HYPERION, 


The numerous dogs of the neighbourhood are 
growing unquiet, and my landlord’s cat, inspired 
by that sweet duet, is making, by my window, (for, 
of course, mymusico-poetic laboratory is an attic,) 
certain tender confessions,— upward through the 
whole chromatic scale, soft complaining, to the 
neighbour’s tabby, with whom he has been in love 
since March last! Till this is all fairly over, I 
think I will sit quietly here. Besides, there is 
still blank paper and Burgundy left, of which I 
forthwith take a sip. 

“ There is, as I have heard, an ancient law, 
forbidding those, who follow any noisy handi¬ 
craft, from living near literary men. Should not 
then musical composers, poor, and hard beset, and 
who, moreover, are forced to coin their inspira¬ 
tion into gold, to spin out the thread of life withal, 
be allowed to apply this law to themselves, and 
banish out of the neighbourhood all ballad-singers 
and bagpipers ^ What would a painter say, while 
transferring to his canvass a form of ideal beauty, 
if you should hold up before him all manner of 
wild faces and ugly masks } He might shut his 
eyes, and in this way, at least, quietly follow out 
the images of fancy. Cotton, in one’s ears, is of 
no use; one still hears the dreadful massacre. 


A ROMANCE. 


327 


And then the idea, — the bare idea, ‘Now they 
are going to sing, — now the horn strikes up,’ — 
IS enough to send one’s sublimest thoughts to the 
very devil.” 


328 


HYPERION. 


CHAPTER V. 

SAINT GILGEN. 

It was a bright Sunday morning when Flem¬ 
ming and Berkley left behind them the cloud-cap¬ 
ped hills of Salzburg, and journeyed eastward 
towards the lakes. The landscape around them 
was one to attune their souls to holy musings. 
Field, forest, hill and vale, fresh air, and the per¬ 
fume of clover-fields and new-mown hay, birds 
singing, and the sound of village bells, and the 
moving breeze among the branches, — no laborers 
in the fields, but peasants on thbir way to church, 
coming across the green pastures, with roses in 
their hats, —the beauty and quiet of the holy day 
of rest, — all, all in earth and air, breathed upon 
the soul like a benediction. 

They stopped to change horses at Hof, a hand¬ 
ful of houses on the brow of a breezy hill, the 
church and inn standing opposite to each other, 
and nothing between them but the dusty road, 


A ROMANCE. 


329 


and the churchyard, with its iron crosses, and the 
fluttering tinsel of the funeral garlands. In the 
churchyard, and at the inn-door, were groups of 
peasants, waiting for divine service to begin. 
They were clothed in their holyday dresses. 
The men wore breeches and long boots, and 
frock-coats with large metal buttons ; the women, 
straw hats, and gay calico gowns with short waists 
and scant folds. They were adorned with a pro¬ 
fusion of great trumpery ornaments, and remind¬ 
ed Flemming of the Indians in the frontier villages 
of America. Near the churchyard-gate was a 
booth, filled with flaunting calicoes ; and opposite 
sat an old woman behind a table, which was load¬ 
ed with gingerbread. She had a roulette at her 
elbow, where the peasants risked a kreutzer for a 
cake. On other tables, cases of knives, scythes, 
reapinghooks, and other implements of husbandry 
were offered for sale. 

The travellers continued their journey, without 
stopping to hear mass. In the course of the fore¬ 
noon, they came suddenly in sight of the beautiful 
lake of Saint Wolfgang, lying deep beneath 
them in the valley. On its shore, under them, 
sat the white village of Saint Gilgen, like a swan 
upon its reedy nest. They seemed to have taken 


330 


HYPERION, 


it unawares, and as it were clapped their hands 
upon it in its sleep, and almost expected to see it 
spread its broad snow-white wings and fly away. 
The whole scene was one of surpassing beauty. 

' They drove leisurely down the steep hill, and 
stopped at the village inn. Before the door was 
a magnificent broad-armed tree, with benches and 
tables beneath its shadow. On the front of the 
house was written in large letters, “ Post-Tavern 
by Franz Schondorfer ” ; and over this was a 
large sundial, and a half-effaced painting of a 
bear-hunt, covering the whole side of the house, 
and mostly red. As they drove up, a procession 
of priests with banners, and peasants with their 
hats in their hands, passed by towards the church. 
They were singing a solemn psalm. At the same 
moment, a smart servant girl, with a black straw 
hat set coquettishly on her flaxen hair, and a large 
silver spoon in her girdle, came out of the inn, and 
asked Flemming what he would please to order 
for breakfast. 

Breakfast was soon ready, and was served at 
the head of the stairs, on an old-fashioned oaken 
table in the great hall, into which the chambers 
opened. Berkley ordered at the same lime a tub 
of cold water, in which he seated himself, with 


A ROMANCE. 


331 


his coat on, and a bed-quilt thrown round his 
knees. Thus he sat for an hour ; ate his break¬ 
fast, and smoked a pipe, and laughed a good deal. 
He then went to bed and slept till dinner-time. 
Meanwhile Flemming sat in his chamber and read. 
It was a large room in the front of the house, 
looking upon the village and the lake. The win¬ 
dows were latticed, with small panes, and the 
window-sills filled with fragrant flowers. 

At length the heat of noon was over. Hay, 
like a weary pilgrim, had reached the western 
gate of heaven, and Evening stooped down to 
unloose the latchets of his sandal-shoon. Flem¬ 
ming and Berkley sallied forth to ramble by the 
borders of the lake. Down the cool green glades 
and alleys, beneath the illuminated leaves of the 
forest, over the rising grounds in the glimmering 
fretwork of sunshine and leaf-shadow,—an exhil¬ 
arating walk ! The cool evening air by the lake 
was like a bath. They drank the freshness of the 
hour in thirsty draughts, and their breasts heaved 
rejoicing and revived, after the feverish, long con¬ 
finement of the sultry summer day. And there, 
too, lay the lake, so beautiful and still ! Did it 
not recall, think ye, the lake of Thun ? 

On their return homeward, they passed near the 
village churchyard. 


332 


HYPERION, 


‘‘ Let US go in and see how the dead rest,’’ 
said Flemming, as they passed beneath the belfry 
of the church ; and they went in, and lingered 
among the tombs and the evening shadows. 

How peaceful is the dwelling-place of those 
who inhabit the green hamlets and populous cities 
of the dead ! They need no antidote for care, — 
no armor against fate. No morning sun shines 
in at the closed windows and awakens them, nor 
shall until the last great day. At most, a strag¬ 
gling sunbeam creeps in through the crumbling 
wall of an old, neglected tomb, — a strange visiter, 
that stays not long. And there they all sleep, 
the holy ones, with their arms crossed upon their 
breasts, or lying motionless by their sides, — not 
carved in marble by the hand of man, but formed 
in dust by tbe hand of God. God’s peace be 
with them ! No one comes to them now, to hold 
them by tbe hand, and with delicate fingers 
to smooth their hair. They heed no more the 
blandishments of earthly friendship. They need 
us not, however much we may need them. And 
yet they silently await our coming. 

Beautiful is that season of life, when we can 
say, in the language of Scripture, “ Thou hast 
the dew of thy youth.” But of these flowers 


A. ROMANCE. 


333 


Death gathers many. He plaoes them upon his 
bosom, and he is transformed into something less 
terrific than before. We learn to gaze and shud¬ 
der not; for he carries in his arms the sweet blos¬ 
soms of our earthly hopes. We shall see then 
all again, blooming in a happier land. 

Yes, Death brings us again to our friends. 
They are waiting for us, and we shall not long 
delay. They have gone before us, and are like 
the angels in heaven. They stand upon the bor¬ 
ders of the grave to welcome us, with the coun¬ 
tenance of affection which they wore on earth ; 
yet more lovely, more radiant, more spiritual! 
He spake well who said that graves are the foot¬ 
prints of angels! 

Death has taken thee, too, and thou hast the 
dew of thy youth. He has placed thee upon his 
bosom, and his stern countenance wears a smile. 
The far country, toward which we journey, seems 
nearer to us, and the way less dark ; for thou hast 
gone before, passing so quietly to thy rest, that 
day itself dies not more calmly! 

It was in an hour of blessed communion with 
the souls of the departed, that the sweet poet 
Henry Vaughan wrote those few lines which 
have made death lovely. 


S34 


HYPERION, 


“ They are all gone into a world of light, 

And I alone sit lingering here ! 

Their very memory is fair and bright, 

And my sad thoughts doth clear. 

“ It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast. 

Like stars upon some gloomy grove. 

Or those faint beams in which the hill is dressed. 

After the sun’s remove. 

“ I see them walking in an air of glory. 

Whose light doth trample on my days. 

My days, which are at best but dull and hoary. 

Mere glimmerings and decays. 

“ O holy hope, and high humility, 

High as the heavens above ! 

These are your walks, and ye have showed them me. 
To kindle my cold love. 

“ Dear, beauteous Death ! the jewel of the just! 

Shining nowhere but in the dark ! 

What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust. 

Could man outlook that mark ! 

“ He that hath found some fledged bird’s nest may know, 
At first sight, if the bird be flown ; 

But what fair field or grove he sings in now. 

That is to him unknown. 

“ And yet as angels, in some brighter dreams. 

Call to the soul when man doth sleep, 

So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes. 
And into glory peep ! 


A ROMANCE. 


335 


“ If a star were confined into a tomb, 

Her captive flame must needs burn there , 

But when the hand that locked her up gave room, 

She’d shine through all the sphere. 

* O Father of eternal life, and all 
Created glories under thee ! 

Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall 
Into true liberty. 

‘ Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill 
My perspective, still as they pass. 

Or else remove me hence unto th^ hill 
Where I shall need no glass.” 

Such were Flemming’s thoughts, as he stood 
' among the tombs at evening in the churchyard of 
Saint Gilgen. A holy calm stole over him. The 
fever of his heart was allayed. He had a mo¬ 
ment’s rest from pain ; and went back to his cham¬ 
ber in peace. Whence came this holy calm, this 
long-desired tranquillity } He knew not; yet the 
place seemed consecrated. He resolved to linger 
there, beside the lake, which was a Pool of Be- 
thesda for him ; and let Berkley go on alone to the 
baths of Ischel. He would wait for him there 
in the solitude of Saint Gilgen. Long after they 
had parted for the night, he sat in his chamber, 
and thought of what he had suffered, and enjoyed 
the silence within and without. Hour after hour 


336 


HYPERION. 


slipped by unheeded, as he sat lost in his reverie. 
At length, his candle sank in its socket, gave one 
flickering gleam, and expired with a sob. This 
aroused him. 

He went to the window, and peered out into 
the dark night. It was very late. Twice already 
since midnight had the great pulpit-orator Time, 
like a preacher in the days of the Puritans, turned 
the hourglass on his high pulpit, the church bel¬ 
fry, and still wejt on with his sermon, thundering 
downward to the congregation dn the churchyard 
and in the village. But they heard him not. 
They were all asleep in their narrow pews, name- ' 
ly, in their beds and in their graves. Soon after¬ 
ward the cock crew ; and the cloudy heaven, like 
the apostle who denied his Lord, wept bitterly. 


A ROMANCE. 


337 


CHAPTER VI. 

SAINT WOLFGANG. 

The morning is lovely beyond expression. 
The heat of the sun is great ; but a gentle wind 
cools the air. Birds never sang more loud and 
clear. The flowers, too, on the window-sill, and 
on the table, rose, geranium, and the delicate 
crimson cactus, are all so beautiful, that we think 
the German poet right, when he calls the flowers 
“ stars in the firmament of the earth.” Out of 
doors all is quiet. Opposite the window stands 
the village schoolhouse. There are two parasite 
trees, with their outspread branches nailed against 
the white walls, like the wings of culprit kites. 
There the rods grow. Under them, on a bench 
at the door, sit school-girls ; and barefoot urchins 
in breeches are spelling out their lessons. The 
clock strikes twelve, and one by one they disap¬ 
pear, and go into the hive, like bees at the sound 
of a brass pan. At the door of the next house 
22 


338 


HYPERION, 


sits a poor woman, knitting in the shade ; and in 
front of her is an aqueduct, pouring its cool, clear 
water into a rough wooden trough. A travelling 
carriage, without horses, stands at the inn-door, 
and a postilion in red jacket is talking with a 
blacksmith, who wears blue woollen stockings and 
a leather apron. Beyond is a stable, and still far¬ 
ther a cluster of houses and the village church. 
They are repairing the belfry and the bulbous 
steeple. A little farther, over the roofs of the 
houses, you can see Saint Wolfgang’s lake. 
Water so bright and beautiful hardly flows else¬ 
where. Green and blue and silver-white run in¬ 
to each other, with almost imperceptible change. 
And above are the pinnacles of the mountains ; 
some bald, and rocky, and cone-shaped, and oth¬ 
ers bold, and broad, and dark with pines. 

Such was the scene which Paul Flemming be¬ 
held from his window a few mornings after Berk¬ 
ley’s departure. The quiet of the place had 
soothed him. He had become more calm. His 
heart complained less loudly in the holy village 
silence, as we are wont to lower our voices when 
those around us speak in whispers. He began to 
feel at times an interest in the lowly things about 
him. The face of the landscape pleased him. 


A ROMANCE. 


339 


but more than this the face of the poor woman 
who sat knitting in the shade. It was a pale, 
meek countenance, with more delicacy in its fea¬ 
tures than is usual among peasantry. It wore al¬ 
so an expression of patient suffering. As he was 
looking at her, a deformed child came out of the 
door and hung upon her knees. She caressed 
him affectionately. It was her child, in whom 
she beheld her own fair features distorted and 
hardly to be recognized, as one sometimes sees 
one’s face reflected from the bowl of a spoon. 

The child’s deformity and the mother’s tender¬ 
ness interested the feelings of Flemming. The 
landlady told him something of the poor woman’s 
history. She was the widow of a blacksmith, 
who had died soon after their marriage. But she 
survived to become a mother, as, in oaks, imme¬ 
diately after fecundation, the male flower fades 
and falls, while the female continues and ripens 
into perfect fruit. Alas ! her child was deformed. 
Yet she looked upon him with eyes of maternal 
fondness and pity, loving him still more for his 
deformity. And in her heart she said, as the 
Mexicans say to their new-born offspring, ‘‘ Child, 
thou art come into the world to suffer. Endure, 
and hold thy peace.” Though poor, she was not 


340 


HYPERION, 


entirely destitute ; for her husband had left her, 
besides the deformed child, a life estate in a tomb 
in the churchyard of Saint Gilgen. During the 
week she labored for other people, and on Sun¬ 
days for herself, by going to church and reading 
the Bible. On one of the blank leaves she had 
recorded the day of her birth, and that of her 
child’s, likewise her marriage and her husband’s 
death. Thus she lived, poor, patient, and resign¬ 
ed. Her heart was a passion-flower, bearing 
within it the crown of thorns and the cross of 
Christ. Her ideas of heaven were few and sim¬ 
ple. She rejected the doctrine that it was a place 
of constant activity, and not of repose, and be¬ 
lieved, that, when she at length reached it, she 
should work no more, but sit always in a clean 
white apron, and sing psalms. 

As Flemming sat meditating on these things, he 
paid new homage in his heart to the beauty and 
excellence of the female character. He thought 
of the absent and the dead ; and said, with tears 
in his eyes : — 

“ Shall I thank God for the green summer, and 
the mild air, and the flowers, and the stars, and 
all that makes this world so beautiful, and not for 
the good and beautiful beings I have known in it } 


A ROMANCE. 


341 


Has not their presence been sweeter to me than 
flowers } Are they not higher and holier than 
the stars ? Are they not more to me than all 
things else ? ” 

Thus the morning passed away in musings ; 
and in the afternoon, when Flemming was prepar¬ 
ing to go down to the lake, as his custom was, a 
carriage drew up before the door, and, to his 
great astonishment, out jumped Berkley. The 
first thing he did was to give the postmaster, who 
stood near the door, a smart cut with his whip. 
The sufferer gently expostulated, saying, — 

“ Pray, Sir, don’t; I am lame.” 

Whereupon Berkley desisted, and began in¬ 
stead to shake the postmaster’s wife by the 
shoulders, and order his dinner in English. But 
all this was done so good-naturedly, and with such 
a rosy, laughing face, that no offence was taken. 

“ So you have returned much sooner than you 
intended,” said Flemming, after the first friendly 
salutations. 

“ Yes,” replied Berkley ; “ I became tired of 
Ischel,—very tired. I did not find there the 
friends I expected. Now I am going back to 
Salzburg, and then to Gastein. There I shall 
certainly find them. You must go with me.” 


242 


HYPERION 


Flemming declined the invitation ; and propos¬ 
ed to Berkley that he should join him in his ex¬ 
cursion on the lake. 

“You shall hear the grand echo of the Falken- 
stein,” said he, “and behold the scene of the 
Bridal Tragedy ; and then we will go on as 
far as the village of Saint Wolfgang, which you 
have not yet seen, except across the lake.” 

“ Well, this afternoon I devote to you ; for 
to-morrow we part once more, and who knows 
when we shall meet again ? ” 

They went down to the water’s side without 
farther delay ; and, taking a boat with two oars, 
struck across an elbow of the lake towards a bar¬ 
ren rock by the eastern shore, from which a small 
white monument shone in the sun. 

“ That monument,” said one of the boatmen, 
a stout young lad in leather breeches, “w’as built 
by a butcher, to the glory of Saint Wolfgang, who 
saved him from drowning. He was one day rid¬ 
ing an ox to market along the opposite bank; when 
the animal, taking fright, sprang into the water, and 
swam over to this place, with the butcher on his 
back.” 

“ And do you think he could have done this,” 
asked Berkley, “ if Saint Wolfgang had not 
helped him ? ” 



A ROMANCE. 


343 


“ Of course not! ” answered leather-breeches ; 
and the Englishman laughed. 

From this point they rowed along under the 
shore to a low promontory, upon which stood 
another monument, commemorating a more tragi¬ 
cal event. 

“ This is the place I was speaking of,’’ said 
Flemming, as the boatmen rested on their oars. 
“The melancholy and singular event it com¬ 
memorates happened more than two centuries 
ago. There was a bridal party here upon the 
ice, one winter ; and in the midst of the dance the 
ice broke, and the whole merry company were 
drowned together, except the fiddlers, who were 
sitting on the shore.” 

They looked in silence at the monument, and 
at the blue quiet water, under which the bones of 
the dancers lay buried, hand in hand. The mon¬ 
ument is of stone, painted white, with an over¬ 
hanging roof to shelter it from storms. In a 
niche in front is a small image of the Saviour, in 
a sitting posture ; and an inscription upon a mar¬ 
ble tablet below says that it was placed there by 
Longinus Walther, and his wife, Barbara Juliana 
von Hainberg ; themselves long since peacefully 
crumbled to dust, side by side, in some church¬ 
yard. 


344 


HYPERION, 


“ That was breaking the ice with a ven¬ 
geance ! ” said Berkley, as they pushed out into 
the lake again ; and ere long they were floating 
beneath the mighty precipice of Falkenstein ; a 
steep wall of rock, crowned with a chapel and a 
hermitage, where in days of old lived the holy 
Saint Wolfgang. It is now haunted only by an 
echo, so distinct and loud, that one might imagine 
the ghost of the departed saint to be sitting there, 
and repeating the voices from below, — not wor-d 
by word, but sentence by sentence, as if he were 
passing them up to the recording angel. 

“ Ho ! ho ! ho ! shouted Berkley ; and the 
sound seemed to strike the wall of stone, like the 
flapping of steel plates ; — Ho ! ho ! ho ! How 
are you to-day. Saint Wolfgang? You infernal 
old rascal! How is the Frau von Wolfgang? — 
God save great George, our king ! Damn your 
eyes 1 Hold your tongue ! Ho I ho ! ha I ha ! 
hi! » 

And the words were recorded above ; and a 
voice repeated them with awful distinctness in the 
blue depths overhead ; and Flemming felt in his 
inmost soul the contrast between the holy heavens, 
and the mockery of laughter, and the idle words, 
which fall back from the sky above us and soil 
not its purity. 


A ROMANCE. 


345 


In half an hour they were at the village of 
Saint Wolfgang, threading a narrow street, above 
which the roofs of quaint, picturesque old houses 
almost met. .It led them to a Gothic church ; 
a magnificent one for a village ; — in front of 
which was a small court, shut in by Italian-look- 
ing houses, with balconies, and flowers at the 
windows. Here a bronze fountain of elaborate 
workmanship was playing in the shade. On its 
summit stood an image of the patron saint of the 
village ; and, running round the under lip of the 
water-basin below, they read this inscription in old 
German rhymes : — 

“ I am in the honor of Saint Wolfgang raised. 
Abbot Wolfgang Habel of Emensee, he hath 
made me for the use and delight of poor pilgrim 
wight. Neither gold nor wine hath he ; at this 
water shall he merry be. In the year of the 
Lord fifteen hundred and fifteen hath the work 
completed been. God be praised ! ” 

As they were deciphering the rude characters 
of this pious inscription, a village priest came 
down a high flight of steps from the parsonage near 
the church, and courteously saluted the strangers. 
After returning the salutation, the mad English¬ 
man, without preface, asked him how many nat- 


346 


HYPERION, 


ural children were annually born in the parish. 
The question seemed to astonish the good father ; 
but he answered it civilly, as he did several 
other questions, which Flemming thought rather 
indiscreet, to say the least. 

“ You will excuse our curiosity,” said he to 
the priest, by way of apology. “We are stran¬ 
gers from distant countries. My friend is an 
Englishman, and I an American.” 

Berkley, however, was not so easily silenced.- 
After a few moments’ conversation, he broke out 
into most audacious Latin, in which the only 
words clearly intelligible were : — 

“ Plurimum reverende, in Christo religiosis- 
sime, ac clarissime lyomine, necnon et amice ob- 
servandissime ! Petrus sic est locutus : ‘ Nec 
argentum mihi, nec aurum est ; sed quod habeo, 
hoc tibi do ; surge et ambula.’ ” 

He seemed to be speaking of the fountain. 
The priest answered meekly, — 

“ Non intellexi, Domine ! ” 

But Berkley continued with great volubility to 
speak of his being a stranger in the land, and all 
men being strangers upon earth, and hoping to 
meet the good priest hereafter in the kingdonr of 
heaven. The priest seeemed confounded and 


A ROMANCE. 


347 


abashed. Through the mist of a strange pronun¬ 
ciation, he could recognize only here and there a 
familiar word. He took out his snuff-box ; and 
tried to quote a passage from Saint Paul: — 

Ut dixit Sanctus Paulus : ‘ Qui bene facit 
_) 

Here his memory failed him, or, as the French 
say, he was at the end of his Latin, and, stretch¬ 
ing forth his long forefinger, he concluded in 
German : — 

“ Yes ; — I don’t — so clearly remember — 
what he did say.” 

The Englishman helped him through with a 
moral phrase; and then, pulling off his hat, ex¬ 
claimed very solemnly: — 

‘‘ Vale, Domine doctissime et reverendis- 
sime ! ” 

And the Dominie, as if pursued by a demon, 
made a sudden and precipitate retreat down a 
flight of steps in the street. 

‘‘ There ! ” said Berkley, laughing, ‘‘ I beat 
him at his own weapons. What do you say of 
my Latin ? ” 

“I say of it,” replied Flemming, “ what Ho- 
lofernes said of Sir Nathaniel’s : — ‘ Priscian a 
little scratched ’t will serve.’ T think I have 



348 


HYPERION, 


heard better. But what a whim ! I thought I 
should have laughed aloud.” 

They were still sitting by the bronze fountain, 
when the priest returned, accompanied by a short 
man, with large feet, and a long blue surtout, so 
greasy, that it reminded one of Polilla’s in the 
Spanish play, which was lined with slices of 
pork. His countenance was broad and placid, 
but his blue eyes gleamed with a wild, mysterious, 
sorrowful expression. Flemming thought the 
Latin contest was to be renewed, with more pow¬ 
der and heavier guns. He was mistaken. The 
stranger saluted him in German, and said, that, 
having heard he was from America, he had 
come to question him about that distant country, 
for which he was on the point of embarking. 
There was nothing peculiar in his manner, nor in 
the questions he asked, nor the remarks he made. 
They were the usual questions and remarks about 
cities and climate and sailing the sea. At length 
Flemming asked him the object of his journey to 
America. The stranger came close to him, and, 
lowering his voice, said very solemnly : — 

“ That holy man, Frederick Baraga, missiona¬ 
ry among the Indians at Lacroix, on Lake Supe¬ 
rior, has returned to his fatherland, Krain ; and 



A ROMANCE. 


349 


I am chosen by Heaven to go forth as Minister 
Extraordinary of Christ, to unite all nations and 
people in one church ! ” 

Flemming almost started at the singular ear 
nestness with which he uttered these words ; and 
looked at him attentively, thinking to see the face 
of a madman. But the modest, unassuming look 
of that placid countenance was unchanged ; only 
in the eyes burned a mysterious light, as if candles 
had been lighted in the brain, to magnify the 
daylight there. 

“ It is truly a high vocation,” said he, in reply. 
“ But are you sure that this is no hallucination ? 
Are you certain that you have been chosen by 
Heaven for this great work ? ” 

“ I am certain,” replied the German, in a tone 
of great calmness and sincerity ; and, if Saint 
Peter and Saint Paul should come down from 
heaven to assure me of it, my faith would be no 
stronger than it now is. It has been declared to 
me by many signs and wonders. I can no longer 
doubt nor hesitate. I have already heard the 
voice of the Spirit, speaking to me at night; and 
I know that I am an apostle, and chosen for this 
work.” 

Such was the calm enthusiasm with which he 


350 


HYPERION, 


spoke, that Flemming could not choose but listen. 
He felt interested in this strange being. There 
was something awe-inspiring in the spirit that 
possessed him. After a short pause, he con¬ 
tinued ; — 

“ If you wish to know who I am, I can tell 
you in few words. I think you will not find the 
story without interest.” 

He then went on to relate the circumstances 
recorded in the following chapter. 


A ROMANCE. 


351 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE STORY OF BROTHER BERNARDUS. 

“ I WAS born in the city of Stein, in the land 
of Krain. My pious mother, Gertrude, sang me 
psalms and spiritual songs in childhood ; and often, 
when I awoke in the night, I saw her still sitting 
patiently at her work by the stove, and heard her 
singing those hymns of heaven, or praying in the 
midnight darkness when her work was done. It 
was for me she prayed. Thus, from my earliest 
childhood, I breathed the breath of pious aspira¬ 
tions. Afterwards I went to Laybach, as a stu¬ 
dent of theology ; and, after the usual course of 
study, was ordained a priest. I went forth to the 
care of souls ; my own soul filled with the faith 
that ere long all people would be united in one 
church. Yet at times my heart was heavy, to 
behold how many nations there are who have not 
heard of Christ; and how those, who are called 
Christians, are divided into numberless sects, and 


352 


HYPERION, 


how among these are many who are Christians m 
name only. I determined to devote myself to 
the great work of the one church universal, and, 
for this purpose, to give myself wholly up to the 
study of the Evangelists and the Fathers. I re¬ 
tired to the Benedictine cloister of Saint Paul in 
the valley of Lavant. The father-confessor in 
the nunnery of Laak, where I then lived, strength¬ 
ened me in this resolve. I had long walked with 
this angel of God in a human form, and his part¬ 
ing benediction sank deep into my soul. The 
Prince-Abbot Berthold, of blessed memory, was 
then head of the Benedictine convent. He re¬ 
ceived me kindly, and led me to the library ; 
where I gazed with secret rapture on the vast 
folios of the Christian Fathers, from which, as 
from an arsenal, I was to draw the weapons of 
holy warfare. In the study of these the year of 
my novitiate passed. I became a Franciscan 
friar, and took the name of Brother Bernardus. 
Yet my course of life remained unchanged. I 
seldom left the cloister ; but sat in my cell, and 
pored over those tomes of holy wisdom. About 
this time the aged confessor in Laak departed 
this life. His death was made known to me 
in a dream. It must have been after midnight, 


A ROMANCE. 


353 


when I thought that I came into the church, 
which was brilliantly lighted up. The dead 
body of the venerable saint was brought in, at¬ 
tended by a great crowd. It seemed to me that 
I must go up into the pulpit and pronounce his 
funeral oration ; and, as I ascended the stairs, 
the words of my text came into my mind: — 
^ Blessed in the sight of the Lord is the death of 
his saints.’ My funeral sermon ended in a strain 
of exultatiop ; and I awoke with ‘ Amen ! ’ upon 
my lips. A few days afterwards, I heard that 
on that night the old man died. After this event, 
I became restless and melancholy. I strove in 
vain to drive from me my gloomy thoughts. I 
could no longer study. I was no longer content¬ 
ed in the cloister. I even thought of leaving it. 

‘‘ One night, I had gone to bed early, according 
to my custom, and had fallen asleep, Suddenly 
I was awakened by a bright and wonderful light, 
which shone all about me, and filled me with 
heavenly rapture. Shortly after, I heard a voice, 
which pronounced distinctly these words, in the 
Sclavonian tongue : — ‘ Remain in the cloister ! ’ 
It was the voice of my departed mother. I was 
fully awake ; yet saw nothing but the bright light, 
which disappeared when the words had been 
23 



354 


HYPERION, 


spoken. Still it was broad daylight in my cham¬ 
ber. I thought I had slept beyond my usual 
hour. I looked at my watch. It was just one 
o’clock after midnight. Suddenly the daylight 
vanished, and it was dark. In the morning I 
arose, as if new-born, through the wonderful light 
and the words of my mother’s voice. It was no 
dream. I knew it was the will of God that I 
should stay ; and I could again give myself up 
to quiet study. I read the whole Bible through 
once more in the original text ; and went on with 
the Fathers in chronological order. Often, af¬ 
ter the apparition of the light, I awoke at the 
same hour ; and though I heard no voice and saw 
no light, yet was refreshed with heavenly conso¬ 
lation. 

Not long after this, an important event hap¬ 
pened in the cloister. In the absence of the 
deacon of the abbey, I was to preach the 
Thanksgiving sermon of Harvest-home. During 
the week, the Prince-Abbot Berthold gave up the 
ghost; and my sermon became at once a thanks¬ 
giving and funeral sermon. Perhaps it may not 
be unworthy of notice, that I was thus called to 
pronounce the burial discourse over the body of 
the last reigning spiritual Prince-Abbot in Ger- 


A ROMANCE. 


355 


many. He was a man of God, and worthy of 
this honor. 

‘‘One year after this event, I was appointed 
Professor of Biblical Hermeneutics in Klagen- 
furt, and left the abbey for ever. In Klagenfurt 
I remained ten years, dwelling in the same house, 
and eating at the same table, with seventeen other 
professors. Their conversation naturally suggest¬ 
ed new’topics of study, and brought to my no¬ 
tice books which I had never before seen. One 
day I heard at table, that Maurus Cappellari, a 
monk of Camaldoli, had been elected Pope, un¬ 
der the name of Gregory Sixteenth. He was 
spoken of as a very learned man, who had writ¬ 
ten many books. At this time I was a firm be¬ 
liever in the Pope’s infallibility; and when I 
heard these books mentioned, there arose in me 
an irresistible longing to read them. I inquired 
for them ; but they were nowhere to be had. At 
length I heard that his most important work. The 
Triumph of the Holy See and of the Church, 
had been translated into German and published in 
Augsburg. Ere long the precious volume was in 
my hands. I began to read it with the profound- 
est awe. The farther I read, the more my won¬ 
der grew. The subject was of the deepest inter- 



856 


HYPERION, 


est to me. I could not lay the book out of my 
hand, till I had read it through with the closest 
attention. Now at length my eyes were opened. 
I saw before me a monk who had been educated 
in an Italian cloister; who, indeed, had read 
much, and yet only what was calculated to 
strengthen him in the prejudices of his childhood , 
and who had entirely neglected those studies up¬ 
on which a bishop should most rely, in order to 
work out the salvation of man. I perceived, at 
the same time, that this was the strongest instru¬ 
ment for battering down the walls which separ¬ 
ate Christian from Christian. I saw, though as 
yet dimly, the way in wdiich the union of Chris¬ 
tians in the one true church was to be accom¬ 
plished. I knew not whether to be most aston¬ 
ished at my own blindness, that, in all my previ¬ 
ous studies, I had not perceived what the read¬ 
ing of this single book made manifest to me ; or 
at the blindness of the Pope, who had undertak¬ 
en to justify such follies, without perceiving that 
at the same moment he was himself lying in fatal 
error. But since I have learned more thorough¬ 
ly the ways of the Lord, I am now no more as¬ 
tonished at this, but pray only to Divine Provi¬ 
dence, who so mysteriously prepares all people 


A ROMANCE. 


357 


10 be united in one true church. I no longer be¬ 
lieved in the Pope’s infallibility ; nay, I believed 
even, that, to the great injury of humanity, he 
lay in fatal error. I felt, moreover, that now the 
time had fully come, when I should publicly show 
myself, and found in America a parish and a 
school, and become the spiritual guide of men 
and the schoolmaster of children. 

“ It was then, and on that account, that I 
wrote in the Latin tongue my great work on Bib¬ 
lical Hermeneutics. But in Germany it cannot 
be published. The Austrian censor of the press 
cannot find time to read it ; though I think, that, 
if I have spent so many laborious days and sleep¬ 
less nights in writing it, this man ought likewise to 
find time enough not only to read it, but to exam¬ 
ine all the grounds of my reasoning, and point out 
to me any errors, if he can find any. Notwith¬ 
standing, the Spirit gave me no repose, but urged 
me ever mightily on to the perfection of my great 
work. 

‘‘ One morning I sat writing, under peculiar in¬ 
fluences of the Spirit, upon the Confusion of 
Tongues, the Division of the People, and the 
importance of the study of Comparative Philol¬ 
ogy, in reference to their union in one church. 


358 


HYPERION 


So wrapped was I in the thought, that I came 
late into my lecture-room ; and after lecture re¬ 
turned to my chamber, where I wrote till the 
clock struck twelve. At dinner, one of the Pro¬ 
fessors asked if any one had seen the star 
about which so much was said. The Profes¬ 
sor of Physics said that the student Johannes 
Schminke had come to him in the greatest haste, 
and besought him to go out and see the wonder¬ 
ful star; but, being incredulous about it, he m^de 
no haste, and, when they came into the street, 
the star had disappeared. When I heard the star 
spoken of, my soul was filled with rapture ; and 
a voice within me seemed to say, ‘ The great 
time is approaching ; labor unweariedly in thy 
work.’ I sought out the student, and, like Her¬ 
od, inquired diligently at what time the star ap¬ 
peared. He informed me, that, just as the clock 
was striking eight, in the morning, he went out of 
his house to go to the college, and saw on the 
square a crowd looking at a bright star. It was 
the very hour, when I was writing alone in my 
chamber on the importance of Comparative Phi¬ 
lology in bringing about the union of all nations. 
I felt that my hour had come. Strangely moved, 
I walked up and down mv chamber. The even- 


k ROMANCE. 


359 


ing twilight came on. I lighted my lamp, and 
drew the green curtains before the windows, and 
sat down to read. But hardly had I taken the 
book into my hand, when the Spirit began to 
move me, and urge me then to make my last de¬ 
cision and resolve. I made a secret vow that 1 
would undertake the voyage to America. Sud¬ 
denly my troubled thoughts were still. An un¬ 
wonted rapture filled my heart. I sat and read 
till the supper-bell rang. They were speaking 
at table of a red, glaring meteor, which had just 
been seen in the air, southeast from Klagenfurt, 
and had suddenly disappeared with a dull, hollow 
sound. It was the very moment at which I had 
taken my final resolution to leave my native land. 
Every great purpose and event of my life seemed 
heralded and attended by divine messengers ; — 
the voices of the dead ; the bright morning star, 
shining in the clear sunshine ; and the red meteor 
in the evening twilight. 

‘‘ I now began seriously to prepare for my de¬ 
parture. The chamber I occupied had once 
been the library of a Franciscan convent. Only 
a thick wall separated it from the church. In 
this wall was a niche, with heavy folding-doors, 
which had served the Franciscans as a repository 


360 


HYPERION, 


for prohibited books. Here also I kept my pa¬ 
pers, and my great work on Biblical Herme¬ 
neutics. The inside of the doors was covered 
with horrible caricatures of Luther, Melancthon, 
Calvin, and other great men. I used often to 
look at them with the deepest melancholy, when 
I thought that these great men likewise had labor¬ 
ed upon earth, and fought with Satan in the 
church. But they were persecuted, denounced, 
condemned to die. So perhaps will it be with 
me. I thought of this often, and armed myself 
against the fear of death. I was in constant ap¬ 
prehension, lest the police should search my 
chamber during my absence, and, by examining 
my papers, discover my doctrine and designs. 
But the Spirit said to me : — ‘Be of good cheer ; 
I will so blind the eyes of thy enemies, that it 
shall not once occur to them to think of thy writ¬ 
ings.’ 

“ At length, after many difficulties and temp¬ 
tations of the Devil, I am on my way to Amer¬ 
ica. Yesterday I took leave of my dearest friend, 
Gregory Kuscher, in Hallstadt. He seemed 
filled with the Spirit of God, and has wonderful¬ 
ly strengthened me in my purpose. All the hosts 
of heaven looked on, and were glad. The old 


A ROMANCE. 


361 


man kissed me, at parting ; and I ascended the 
mountain as if angels bore me up in their arms. 
Near the summit lay a newly fallen avalanche, 
over which, as yet, no footsteps had passed. 
This was my last temptation. Ha ! ’ cried 
I aloud, ‘ Satan has prepared a snaie for me ; but 
I will conquer him with godly weapons.’ I 
sprang over the treacherous snow, with greater 
faith than St. Peter walked the waters of the 
Lake of Galilee ; and came down the valley, 
while the mountain peaks yet shone in the setting 
sun. God smiles upon me. I go forth full of 
hopeful courage. On Christmas next, I shall ex¬ 
communicate the Pope.” 

Saying these words, he slowly and solemnly 
took his leave, like one conscious of the great 
events which awaited him, and withdrew with the 
other priest into the church. Flemming could 
not smile as Berkley did ; for in the solitary, sin¬ 
gular enthusiast, who had just left them, he saw 
only another melancholy victim to solitude and 
over-labor of the brain ; and felt how painful a 
thing it is, thus to become unconsciously the alms¬ 
man of other men’s sympathies, a kind of blind 
beggar for the charity of a good wish or a prayer. 

The sun was now setting. Silently they float- 


362 


HYPERION, 


ed back to Saint Gilgen, amid the cool evening 
shadows. The village clock struck nine, as they 
landed ; and as Berkley was to depart early in 
the morning, he went to bed betimes. On bid¬ 
ding Flemming good night, he said : — 

“ I shall not see you in the morning ; so good 
by, and God bless you. Remember my parting 
words. Never mind trifles. In this world a man 
must either be anvil or hammer. Care killed a 
cat! ” 

“ I have heard you say that so often,” replied 
Flemming, laughing, “ that I begin to believe it. 
But I wonder if Care shaved his left eyebrow, 
after doing the deed, as the ancient Egyptians 
used to do ! ” 

“ Aha ! now you are sweeping cobwebs from 
the sky ! Good night ! Good night ! ” 

A sorrowful event happened in the neighbour¬ 
hood that night. The widow’s child died sudden¬ 
ly. “Woe is me ! ” — thus mourns the child¬ 
less mother in one of the funeral songs of Green¬ 
land ; — “Woe is me, that I should gaze upon 
thy place and find it vacant ! In vain for thee 
thy mother dries the sea-drenched garments ! ” 
Not in these words, but in thoughts like these, 
did the poor mother bewail the death of her child. 


A ROMANCE. 


363 


thinking mostly of the vacant place, and the daily 
cares and solicitudes of maternal love. Flemming 
saw a light in her chamber, and shadows moving 
to and fro, as he stood by the window, gazing in¬ 
to the starry, silent sky. But he little thought 
of the awful domestic tragedy which was even 
then enacted behind those thin curtains ! 


364 


HYPERION, 


CHAPTER VIII. 

FOOTPRINTS OF ANGELS. 

It was Sunday morning ; and the church bells 
were all ringing together. From the neighbour¬ 
ing villages came the solemn, joyful sounds, 
floating through the sunny air, mellow and faint 
and low, — all mingling into one harmonious 
chime, like the sound of some distant organ in 
heaven. Anon they ceased ; and the woods, and 
the clouds, and the whole village, and the very air 
itself, seemed to pray, — so silent was it every¬ 
where. 

Two venerable old men — high priests and 
patriarchs were they in the land — went up the 
pulpit stairs, as Moses and Aaron went up Mount 
Hor, in the sight of all the congregation,—for 
the pulpit stairs were in front, and very high. 

Paul Flemming will never forget the sermon he 
heard that day, —no, not even if he should live 


A ROMANCE 


365 


to be as old as he who preached it. The text 
was, I know that my Redeemer liveth.” It 
was meant to console the pious, poor widow, who 
sat right below him at the foot of the pulpit stairs, 
all in black, and her heart breaking. He said 
nothing of the terrors of death, nor of the gloom 
of the narrow house ; but, looking beyond these 
things, as mere circumstances to which the imag¬ 
ination mainly gives importance, he told his hear¬ 
ers of the innocence of childhood upon earth, 
and the holiness of childhood in heaven, and how 
the beautiful Lord Jesus was once a little child, 
and now in heaven the spirits of little children 
walked with him, and gathered flowers in the 
fields of Paradise. Good old man ! In hehalf 
of humanity, I thank thee for these benignant 
words ! And still more than I, the bereaved 
mother thanked thee ; and from that hour, though 
she wept in secret for her child, yet 

“ She knew he was with Jesus, 

And she asked him not again.” 

After the sermon, Paul Flemming walked forth 
alone into the churchyard. There was no one 
there, save a little hoy, who was fishing with a 
pin hook in a grave half full of water. But a few 


366 


HYPERION, 


moments afterward, through the arched gateway 
under the belfry, came a funeral procession. At 
its head walked a priest in white surplice, chant¬ 
ing. Peasants, old and young, followed him, 
with burning tapers in their hands. A young girl 
carried in her arms a dead child, w’rapped in its 
little winding-sheet. The grave was close under 
the wall, by the church-door. A vase of holy 
water stood beside it. The sexton took the child 
from the girl’s arms, and put it into a coffin ; 
and, as he placed it in the grave, the girl held 
over it a cross wreathed with roses, and the 
priest and peasants sang a funeral hymn. When 
this was over, the priest sprinkled the grave and 
the crowd with holy water ; and then they all 
went into the church, each one stopping, as he 
passed the grave, to throw a handful of earth into 
it, and sprinkle it with the hyssop. 

A few moments afterwards, the voice of the 
priest was heard saying mass in the church, and 
Flemming saw the toothless old sexton treading, 
with his clouted shoes, the fresh earth into the 
grave of the little child. He approached him, 
and asked the age of the deceased. The sexton 
leaned a moment on his spade, and, shrugging his 
shoulders, replied : — 


A ROMANCE. 


367 


Only an hour or two. It was born in the 
night, and died this morning early.” 

“ A brief existence,” said Flemming. The 
child seems to have been born only to be buried 
and have its name recorded on a wooden tomb¬ 
stone.” 

The sexton went on with his work, and made 
no reply. Flemming still lingered among the 
graves, gazing with wonder at the strange devices 
by which man has rendered death horrible and 
the grave loathsome. 

In the temple of Juno at Elis, Sleep and his 
twin-brother. Death, were represented as children 
reposing in the arms of Night. On various fu¬ 
neral monuments of the ancients the Genius of 
Death is sculptured as a beautiful youth, leaning 
on an inverted torch, in the attitude of repose, 
his wings folded and his feet crossed. In such 
peaceful and attractive forms did the imagination 
of ancient poets and sculptors represent death. 
And these were men in whose souls the religion 
of Nature was like the light of stars, beautiful, but 
faint and cold ! Strange, that, in later days, this 
angel of God, which leads us with a gentle hand 
into the “ land of the great departed, into the 
silent land,” should have been transformed into 


368 


HYPERION, 


a monstrous and terrific thing ! Such is the 
spectral rider on the white horse ; — such the 
ghastly skeleton with scythe and hour-glass ; — 
the Reaper, whose name is Death! 

One of the most popular themes of poetry and 
painting in the Middle Ages, and continuing 
down even into modern times, was the Dance of 
Death. In almost all languages is it written, — 
the apparition of the grim spectre, putting a sud¬ 
den stop to all business, and leading men away 
into the “ remarkable retirement ” of the grave. 
It is written in an ancient Spanish poem, and 
painted on a wooden bridge in Switzerland. The 
designs of Holbein are well known. The most 
striking among them is that, where, from a group 
of children sitting round a cottage hearth, Death 
has taken one by the hand, and is leading it out 
of the door. Quietly and unresisting goes the lit¬ 
tle child, and in its countenance no grief, but won¬ 
der only ; while the other children are weeping 
and stretching forth their hands in vain towards 
their departing brother. It is a beautiful design, 
in all save the skeleton. An angel had been bet¬ 
ter, with folded wings, and torch inverted. 

And now the sun was growing high and warm. 
A little chapel, whose door stood open, seemed 


A ROMANCE. 


369 


to invite Flemming to enter and enjoy the grateful 
coolness. He went in. There was no one 
there. The walls were covered with paintings 
and sculpture of the rudest kind, and with a few 
funeral tablets. There was nothing there to move 
the heart to devotion ; but in that hour the heart 
of Flemming w'as weak, —weak as a child’s. 
He bowed his stubborn knees, and wept. And, 
O, how many disappointed hopes, how many 
bitter recollections, how much of wounded pride 
and unrequited love, were in those tears through 
which he read, on a marble tablet in the chapel 
wall opposite, this singular inscription : — 

“ Look not mournfully into the Past. It 
comes not back again. Wisely improve the 
Present. It is thine. Go forth to meet the 
shadowy Future, without fear, and with a manly 
heart.” 

It seemed to him as if the unknown tenant of 
that grave had opened his lips of dust, and spoken 
to him the words of consolation, which his soul 
needed, and which no friend had yet spoken. In 
a moment the anguish of his thoughts was still. 
The stone was rolled away from the door of his 
heart; death was no longer there, but an angel 
clothed in white. He stood up, and his eyes 
24 


370 


HYPERION, 


were no more bleared with tears ; and, looking 
into the bright, morning heaven, he said : — 

“ I will be strong ! ’’ 

Men sometimes go down into tombs, with pain¬ 
ful longings to behold once more the faces of their 
departed friends ; and as they gaze upon them, 
lying there so peacefully with the semblance that 
they wore on earth, the sweet breath of heaven 
touches them, and the features crumble and fall 
together, and are but dust. So did his soul then 
descend for the last time into the great tomb of 
the Past, with painful longings to behold once 
more the dear faces of those he had loved ; and 
the sweet breath of heaven touched them, and 
they would not stay, but crumbled away and per 
ished as he gazed. They, too, were dust. And 
thus, far-sounding, he heard the great gate of the 
Past shut behind him, as the Divine Poet did the 
gate of Paradise, when the angel pointed him the 
way up the Holy Mountain ; and to him likewise 
was it forbidden to look back. 

In the life of every man, there are sudden 
transitions of feeling, which seem almost mirac¬ 
ulous. At once, as if some magician, had touch¬ 
ed the heavens and the earth, the dark clouds 
melt into the air, the wind falls, and serenity sue- 


A ROMANCE. 


371 


ceeds the storm. The causes which produce 
these sudden changes may have been long at 
work within us ; but the changes themselves are 
instantaneous, and apparently without sufficient 
cause. It was so with Flemming ; and from that 
hour forth he resolved that he would no longer 
veer with every shifting wind of circumstance, — 
no longer be a child’s plaything in the hands of 
Fate, which we ourselves do make or mar. He 
resolved henceforward not to lean on others ; but 
to walk self-confident and self-possessed ; — no 
longer to waste his years in vain regrets, nor wait 
the fulfilment of boundless hopes and indiscreet 
desires ; but to live in the Present wisely, alike 
forgetful of the Past, and careless of what the 
mysterious Future might bring. And from that 
moment he was calm and strong; he was re¬ 
conciled with himself. His thoughts turned to 
his distant home beyond the sea. An indescriba¬ 
ble sweet feeling rose within him. 

“ Thither will I turn my wandering footsteps,” 
said he, and be a man among men, and no 
longer a dreamer among shadows. Henceforth 
be mine a life of action and reality ! I will work 
in my own sphere, nor wish it other than it is. 
This alone is health and happiness. This alone 
is Life, — 


372 


HYPERION, 


‘ Life that shall send 
A challenge to its end, 

And when it comes, say. Welcome, friend ! ’ 

Why have I not made these sage reflections, this 
wise resolve, sooner ? Can such a simple result 
spring only from the long and intricate process of 
experience ? Alas ! it is not till time, with reck¬ 
less hand, has torn out half the leaves from the 
Book of Human Life, to light the fires of passion 
with, from day to day, that man begins to see 
that the leaves which remain are few in number, 
and to remember, faintly at first, and then more 
clearly, that upon the earlier pages of that book 
was written a story of happy innocence, which he 
would fain read over again. Then come listless 
irresolution, and the inevitable inaction of despair • 
or else the firm resolve to record upon the leaves 
that still remain a more noble history than the 
child’s.story with which the book began.” 


A ROMANCE. 


373 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE LAST PANG. 

‘‘Farewell to thee, Saint Gilgen ! ” said 
Flemming, as he turned on the brow of the hill, 
to take his last look at the lake and the village 
below, and felt that this was one of the few spots 
on the wide earth to which he could say farewell 
with regret. “ Thy majestic hills have impressed 
themselves upon my soul, as a seal upon wax. 
The quiet beauty of thy lake shall be to me for¬ 
ever an image of peace and purity and stillness, 
and that inscription in thy little churchyard a sen¬ 
tence of wisdom for my after life.” 

Before the setting of the same sun which then 
shone on that fair landscape, he was far on his 
way towards Munich He had left behind 
him the mountains of the Tyrol; and beheld them 
for the last time in the soft evening twilight, their 
bases green with forest-trees, and here and there 
a sharp rocky spire, and a rounded summit cap- 


374 


HYPERION, 


ped with snow. There they lay, their backs 
like the backs of camels; a mighty caravan, re¬ 
posing at evening in its march across the desert. 

From Munich he passed through Augsburg and 
Ulm, on his way to Stuttgard. At the entrances 
of towns and villages, he saw large crucifixes ; 
and on the fronts of many houses, coarse paint¬ 
ings and images of saints. In Gunzhurg three 
priests in black were slowly passing down the 
street, and women fell on their^knees to receive a 
blessing. There were many beggars, too, in the 
streets ; and an old man who was making hay in 
a field by the road-side, when he saw the car¬ 
riage approaching, threw down his rake, and came 
tumbling over the ditch, uttering the most dismal 
wail, with his hat held out in both hands. The 
next day, the bright yellow jackets of the postil¬ 
ions, and the two great tassels of their bugle- 
horns, dangling down their backs, like cauli¬ 
flowers, told him he was in Wiirtemberg ; and, 
late in the evening, he stopped at a hotel in Stutt¬ 
gard ; and, from his chamber-window, saw, in the 
bright moonlight, the old Gothic cathedral, with 
its narrow, lancet windows ancf jutting buttresses, 
right in front of him. Ere long he had forgotten 
all his cares and sorrows in sleep, and with them 
his hopes, and wishes, and good resolves. 


A ROMANCE. 


375 


He was still sitting at breakfast in his chamber, 
the next morning, when the great bell of the ca¬ 
thedral opposite began to ring, and reminded him 
that it was Sunday. Ere long the organ answer¬ 
ed from within, and from its golden lips breathed 
forth a psalm. The congregation began to as¬ 
semble, and Flemming went up with them to the 
house of the Lord. In the body of the church 
he found the pews all filled or locked; they 
seemed to belong to families. He went up into 
the gallery, and looked over the psalm-book of a 
peasant, while the congregation sang the sublime 
old hymn of Martin Luther, — 

“ Our God, he is a tower of strength, 

A trusty shield and weapon.” 

During the singing, a fat clergyman, clad in black, 
with a surplice thrown loosely about him, came 
pacing along one of the aisles, from beneath the 
organ-loft, and ascended the pulpit. After the 
hymn, he read a portion of Scripture, and then 
said : — 

Let us unite in silent prayer.” 

And turning round, he knelt in the pulpit, while 
the congregation remained standing. For a while 
there was a breathless silence in the church. 



376 


HYPERION, 


which to Flemming was more solemnly impressive 
than any audible prayer. The clergyman then 
arose, and began his sermon. His theme was 
the Reformation ; and he attempted to prove 
how much easier it was to enter the kingdom of 
Heaven through the gateways of the Reformeo 
Evangelical Dutch Church, than by the aisles anc 
penitential staircases of Saint Peter’s. He then 
gave a history of the Reformation ; and when 
Flemming thought he was near the end, he heard 
him say that he should divide his discourse into 
four heads. This reminded him of the sturdy old 
Puritan, Cotton Mather, who, after preaching an 
hour, would coolly turn the hour-glass on the 
pulpit, and say : “ Now, my beloved hearers, let 
us take another glass.” He stole out into the 
silent, deserted street, and went to visit the vete¬ 
ran sculptor Dannecker. He found him sitting 
alone, with his psalm-book, and the reminiscences 
of a life of eighty years. As Flemming entered, 
he arose from the sofa, and tottered towards him ; 
a venerable old man, of low stature, and dressed 
in a loose white jacket, with a face like Frank¬ 
lin’s, his white hair flowing over his shoulders, 
and a pale blue eye. 

“ So you are from America,” said he. 


A ROMANCE. 


377 


But you have a German name. Paul Flem¬ 
ming was one of our old poets. I have never 
been in America, and never shall go there. I am 
now too old. I have been in Paris and in Rome. 
But that was long ago. I am now eight-and- 
seventy years old.” 

Here he took Flemming by the hand, and made 
him sit down by his side, on the sofa. And 
Flemming felt a mysterious awe creep over him, 
on touching the hand of the good old man, who 
sat so serenely amid the gathering shade of years, 
and listened to life’s curfew-bell, telling, with 
eight-and-seventy solemn strokes, that the hour 
had come, when the fires of all earthly passion 
must be quenched within, and man must prepare 
to lie down and rest till the morning. 

“You see,” he continued, in a melancholy 
tone, “my hands are cold; colder than yours. 
They were warmer once. I am now an old 
man.” 

“ Yet these are the hands,” answered Flem¬ 
ming, “ that sculptured the beauteous Ariadne 
and the Panther. The soul never grows old.” 

“ Nor does Nature,” said the old man, pleased 
with this allusion to his great work, and pointing 
to the green trees before his window. “ This 


378 


HYPERION 


pleasure I have left to me. My sight is still good. 

I can even distinguish objects on the side of 
yonder mountain. My hearing is also unimpair 
ed. For all which I thank God.” 

Then, directing Flemming’s attention to a fine 
engraving, which hung on the opposite wall of the 
room, he continued : — 

“ That is an engraving of Canova’s Religion. 
I love to sit here and look at it, for hours to¬ 
gether. It is beautiful. He made the statue for 
his native town, where they had no church, until 
he built them one. He placed the statue in it. 
This engraving he sent me as a present. Ah, 
he was a dear, good man. The name of his 
native town I have forgotten. My memory fails 
me. I cannot remember names.” 

Fearful that he had disturbed the old man in 
his morning devotions, Flemming did not remain 
long, but took his leave with regret. There was 
something impressive in the scene he had witness¬ 
ed ;—this beautiful old age of the artist ; sitting 
by the open window, in the bright summer morn¬ 
ing,— the labor of life accomplished, the horizon 
reached, where heaven and .earth meet, — think¬ 
ing it was angel’s music, when he heard the 
church-bells ring ; himself too old to go. As he 


A ROMANCE. 


379 


walked back to his chamber, he thought within 
himself, whether he likewise might not accom¬ 
plish something which should live after him, — 
might not bring something permanent out of this 
fast-fleeting life of man, and then sit down, like 
the artist, in serene old age, and fold his hands in 
silence. He wondered how a man felt, when he 
grew so old, that he could no longer go to church, 
but must sit at home and read the Bible in large 
print. His heart was full of indefinite longings, 
mingled with regrets; longings to accomplish 
something worthy of life ; regret that as yet he 
had accomplished nothing, but had felt and 
dreamed only. Thus the warm days in spring 
bring forth passion-flowers and forget-me-nots. 
It is only after midsummer, when the days grow 
shorter and hotter, that fruit begins to appear. 
Then the heat of the day brings forward the har¬ 
vest, and after the harvest the leaves fall, and 
there is a gray frost. Much meditating upon these 
things, Paul Flemming reached his hotel. At 
that moment a person clad in green came down 
the church-steps, and crossed the street. It was 
the German mechanic of Interlachen. Flemming 
started, as if a green snake had suddenly crossed 
his path. He took refuge in his chamber. 


380 


HYPERION, 


That night, as he was sitting alone in his cham¬ 
ber, having made his preparations to depart the 
following morning, his attention was arrested by 
the sound of a female voice in the next room. A 
thin partition, with a door, separated it from his 
own. He had not before observed that the room 
was occupied. But, in the stillness of the night, 
the tones of that voice struck his ear. He listen 
ed. It was a lady, reading the prayers of tht 
English Church. The tones were familiar, and 
awakened at once a thousand painfully sweet re¬ 
collections. It was the voice of Mary Ashbur¬ 
ton ! His heart could not be deceived ; and all 
its wounds began to bleed afresh, like those of a 
murdered man, when the murderer approaches. 
His first impulse was of affection only, boundless, 
irrepressible, delirious, as of old in the green val¬ 
ley of Interlachen. He waited for the voice to' 
cease, that he might go to her, and behold her 
face once more. And then his pride rose up 
within him, and rebuked this weakness. He re¬ 
membered his firm resolve, and blushed to find 
himself so feeble. And the voice ceased, and 
yet he did not go. Pride had so far gained the 
mastery over affection. He lay down upon his 
bed, like a child as he was. All about him was 


A ROMANCE 


381 


silence, and the silence was holy, for she was 
near ; so near that he could almost hear the beat¬ 
ing of her heart. He knew now for the first time 
how weak he was, and how strong was his passion 
for that woman. His heart was like the altar of 
the Israelites of old; and, though drenched with 
tears, as with rain, it was kindled at once by the 
holy fire from heaven ! 

Towards morning he fell asleep, exhausted with 
*he strong excitement; and, in that hour, when, 
sleep being “ nigh unto the soul,” visions are 
deemed prophetic, he dreamed. O blessed vision 
of the morning, stay ! thou wast so fair! He 
stood again on the green sunny meadow, beneath 
the ruined tower ; and she was by his side, with 
her pale, speaking countenance and holy eyes ; 
and he kissed her fair forehead ; and she turned 
her face towards him, beaming with affection, and 
said, “ I confess it now ; you are the Magician ! ” 
and pressed him in a meek embrace, that he 
“ might rather feel than see the swelling of her 
heart.” And then she faded away from his arms, 
and her face became transfigured, and her voice 
like the voice of an angel in heaven ; — and he 
awoke, and was alone ! 

It was broad daylight ; and he heard the pos- 


382 


HYPERION. 


tilion, and the stamping of horses’ hoofs on the 
pavement at the door. At the same moment his 
servant came in with coffee, and told him all was 
ready. He did not dare to stay. But, throwing 
himself into the carriage, he cast one look towards 
the window of the Dark Ladie, and a moment af¬ 
terwards had left her for ever ! He had drunk 
the last drop of the bitter cup, and now laid the 
golden goblet gently down, knowing that he should 
behold it no more ! 

No more! O, how majestically mournful are 
those words ! They sound like the roar of the 
wind through a forest of pines ! 


END OF BOOK IV. 


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